


For Which I Have to Howl

by EmilianaDarling



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Werewolf AU. Tension is rising in the pack, and having the very-human Kurt Hummel come to visit his brother and boyfriend is putting a strain on everyone. Having Blaine and Kurt mate should help the problem, but the process proves to be more complicated – both physically and emotionally – than either of them could have imagined.</p><p>"A hand on Blaine’s arm is enough to keep him in place. Physically, there is no way that Kurt could restrain Blaine from doing anything he wants. The gesture, however, is enough."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This fic has a strange little origin story. I came across a werewolf prompt on the kinkmeme, which is not something I would ordinarily think to fill. But the I started to wonder about the world such a story would have to be set in, how the relationships between the characters would have to be altered by pack dynamics in order for the prompt to work. And so -- here we are!
> 
> The prompt in question is at http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/8721.html?thread=15031313#t15031313 if you want to check it out, but be warned that it contains spoilers for later in the story -- the prompt itself only covers events that take place far later on. Also, I chose not to follow it exactly. So if you see something in the prompt that really squicks you, it might not even show up here! Just check the warnings before you read each chapter.
> 
> This fic is quite different from anything I would ordinarily write, so I'm very anxious to hear your feedback. Thanks so much for reading, guys. <3

The shove to the back of his shoulders – painful, and abrupt, and so hard Kurt can practically feel bruises forming right away – is completely unexpected. As a result, Kurt is unable to even raise his arms up to soften the blow when he is sent crashing into the wall. He hits the solid surface at an odd angle, head and right shoulder crashing into the drywall so hard he sees stars for a few moments. The bag he had been holding is sent tumbling to the ground, its contents scattering across the floor.

Head spinning and back throbbing in pain, it takes Kurt a moment to understand that someone is speaking. Their voice is angry, urgent.

“— coming in here, smelling the way you do, fucking _flaunting_ it in front of everyone.”

Realization dawns. _Dave Karofsky_.

“Drifting in and out like you own the place, wearing those fancy clothes, and I will _show_ you, Hummel. You’re practically begging one of us to take you away from Anderson and show you what it means to be claimed.”

“David,” says Kurt, long years of experience making it possible for his voice to remain calm, low. Non-aggressive. He pulls back ever-so-slowly from his place against the wall, whole body aching as he turns to face the brawny boy. Kurt is sure to keep his eyes trained firmly on the ground, however; in this moment, there is no way holding Dave’s gaze can be seen as anything other than a challenge. He raises his hands into the air in an unmistakable display of surrender. “David, I need you to take a deep breath and step back from all this, okay. It’s me – it’s Kurt, you _know_ me. You’ve known me for over a year now.”

“Like I don’t know who you are,” seethes Dave, and Kurt is certain that if the taller boy were transformed, the hair would be standing up on his back. Kurt knows better than to raise his head to look. The floor of the foreclosed motel the pack has been living in is grubby: it has the ghosts of a thousand footprints embedded into is grain. “Willing to spread your legs and let him fuck you silly, aren’t you? Bet you could handle a real wolf; you’re sharp like glass, aren’t you?”

“This isn’t you,” intones Kurt, interrupting the nonsensical onrush of words. “This is the moon in your blood. You’re David Karofsky. You like following football and hockey on television. You like Frank Sinatra songs and bad science fiction movies.” Dave takes a step closer, and for the first time Kurt feels a shock of real fear run up his body. He can’t quite control the tremble in his voice when he continues. “Just – just let me get Puck, okay? Or –”

“ _No_!” barks Dave, and Kurt can’t stop himself from daring a glance upward between his eyelashes. Dave looks _wild_ , practically vibrating with rage and ire and – and something else. Something primal and deep, full of fear and self-loathing. His teeth are bared, hands clenched into whitening fists. “No, Hummel. Not this fucking time. If Anderson isn’t man enough –”

“David, please –”

All at once, Kurt’s wind is knocked out of him as Dave darts forward with inhuman speed and pins him, _hard_ , against the motel lobby wall by his raised wrists. His hands impact with a sickening crunch, and for a moment Kurt is sure he has broken something. Fear is pounding in his blood, hot and real and incapacitating, and he tries to force it down. Knows Dave can smell it rolling off of him in waves – knows that his own terror will probably make the larger boy’s toes curl, his blood sing. When Dave leans into Kurt’s neck and inhales deeply, he knows he is correct.

When Dave pulls away, Kurt cannot stop himself from looking up and meeting his gaze. His eyes... his eyes are completely bled through with sickly yellow, full of something primal and raw and visceral. They are more animal than man.

Dave is trembling.

“You can’t even accept it,” Dave breathes. “How normal you are. How fucking _fragile_.” His eyes dart down to Kurt’s mouth. “I could snap you like a twig,” he whispers, before slamming his mouth against Kurt’s.

It is hot, and hard, and unwanted: the force of it makes his head crack back into the wall. Kurt tries to struggle against the grip, but it is impossible to break free. Dave’s hands hold him perfectly in place with more ease than any human being ever could, and there is literally no physical way to wrench himself out. Kurt can’t breathe, repulsion washing through him as Dave forces his mouth open and forces his tongue inside, hands clenching tighter on Kurt’s wrists, making the bones strain. He tries to cry out – to call for help, to beg some more, he doesn’t even know – but he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t _breathe_. Dave’s teeth, still human but sharper than natural, graze across his bottom lip, drawing the barest hint of blood.

“ _Get off of him_!”

The world shakes, and suddenly the force keeping Kurt upright, boxed in, is gone. He coughs, splutters, and slides down the wall until he is slumped ungracefully on the ground. The taste of blood is sharp and metallic in his mouth, and he instinctively seeks out every drop with his tongue and swallows it down before anyone can notice. When he is certain that he has removed every possible trace, he finally looks up at the scene in front of him.

Finn, Blaine, and Dave are circling each other in the motel entranceway. All three are moving slowly, warily, and human voices are drawn out into low, dangerous growls. Their lips are pulled back from their teeth, baring them in a way that promises violence. By all rights, this gesture should look silly on a human face; it doesn’t. Instead, it looks ferocious: slightly unhinged and ready to kill. The sight makes Kurt’s eyes widen and terror clutch at his chest.

“Break it up!” A loud, authoritative voice is bellowing from the direction of the staircase. Kurt looks, and sees Puck stomping down the stairs flanked by Sam and Santana. Their faces are hard. At the mere sound of his voice, all three of the circling men stop in their tracks. Practically simultaneously, all three of them straighten from their hunched, defensive positions into decidedly more human-like stances. Dave has the decency to look embarrassed.

By the time the three newcomers reach the bottom of the stairs, Puck’s eyes are flashing. Every muscle in his body is taut, ready to fight. There is a long pause as the alpha wolf drags his gaze over the room, taking in every detail. “What the fuck is going on here?” he says at last, enunciating every word carefully.

“It was Karofsky,” rushes Blaine immediately, never taking his narrowed eyes off the boy who had so recently slammed his boyfriend up against a wall. Blaine’s small, compact body is practically vibrating with pent-up fury. “He kissed Kurt, was trying to hurt him –”

“Hey!” shouts Dave. “It’s not my fault if Anderson can’t protect his own fucking property.”

And that makes Kurt wince. Because, really, Dave is really going to regret that comment once the full moon is over and flaring hormones have faded away into aching muscles and tender, still-healing bones. Most of the time, Dave is nothing if not over-protective and kind towards Kurt.

But the day before the beginning of the full moon can be volatile for even the most collected of werewolves – and Dave has issues controlling his temper at the best of times. Regardless, the combination of the disparaging comments and _kissing Kurt_ are most likely going to leave the larger boy mortified come next week.

The clamour of voices is starting to draw more onlookers. Tina and Mike are visible on the second floor, leaning over the banister to watch the scene below. Mercedes and Artie have wandered out, expressions curious, from a first floor hallway.

“Hey!” snarls Finn, glaring at the hulking boy in front of him. “That’s my brother you’re talking about!”

“Please,” sneers Dave, lip twisting unpleasantly. “If you think that slip of a thing is still family now that you’re so much more than human, Hudson, you’re dreaming. He’s a fucktoy at best, and dinner at worst.”

“Don’t you _dare_ –!”

“ _Shut up, all of you_!” Puck’s roar brings silence over the room as effectively as flipping a switch. Behind him Santana’s teeth are bared, her long dark hair hanging untamed around her face. “Now,” he continues, body still a map of hard tension as he takes a deep breath and turns to face Kurt. “What are you doing here, Kurt? You know what day it is.”

Kurt shudders involuntarily, still lying slumped against the wall. During the confrontation, he’d been concerned that drawing attention to himself getting up would up have been unnecessarily provocative. At this point, however, standing just seems awkward.

“I’m sorry, Puck,” says Kurt. “I shouldn’t have come. I was –”

“It’s my fault,” blurts Finn, taking a step toward the alpha. “Kurt called a few days ago to ask when he could come by next, and the pack was still planning a pre-moon hunting trip. So I told him he could bring the stuff and leave it here. But I forgot to tell him when the trip got cancelled, and –”

Puck raises his hand in a gesture that is far too old for his young face. Finn falls silent and takes a respectful step back. “Kurt, what were you bringing?”

Silently, Kurt gestures toward the overturned cloth bag. In the commotion, several packages have tumbled out, and one of them has been crushed underfoot. “Presents from our parents. It’s... it’s Finn’s birthday.”

Puck nods, and at the motion Blaine turns and strides purposefully over to Kurt, still slumped against the wall. Blaine crouches down, thick eyebrows drawn together in an expression of intense concern, and places a gentle hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” Blaine asks, and there is a hard note in his voice that lets Kurt know that the gesture is only mostly about making sure his boyfriend is okay. To a lesser extent, the words and physical contact are also intended to stake his claim.

Kurt nods, and Blaine easily pulls him one-handed into a standing position. Kurt lets it happen, puts up no resistance when Blaine proceeds to wrap a solid arm around Kurt’s waist and angle him so that he is tucked into Blaine’s side. It’s all posturing, after all. Necessary.

Plus, the slight tickle of Blaine’s flyaway curls against his nose and the warm certainty of his body is, admittedly, comforting. Safe.

“All right,” says Puck at last, turning to face each of them in turn. “Kurt, don’t listen when your dumbass brother tells you to do something you obviously shouldn’t. You’re smarter than that. Hudson, try to actually use that thing between your ears. Karofsky, lay the fuck off Anderson’s human. Don’t you _dare_ look fucking coy,” he adds at Dave’s self-satisfied expression. “We’re having _words_ later. And Anderson?” Kurt feels Blaine tense beside him. “Let the boy go, he’s made of sterner stuff than you think. You and I are talking. Now.”

“But –!”

“He’s here now, so he may as well stay the night as long as he doesn’t leave your room. And I’ll even have him escorted up to your there to wait for you, all right? And put someone at the door if it’ll make you more comfortable. Regardless, you and I have a pressing concern to discuss. Immediately.” Puck’s eyes narrow. “That was not a suggestion, Anderson. Hummel, _go_.”

\--

Three years ago, when Finn Hudson was rushed to hospital after getting bitten by a wild dog while walking home from football practice, the doctors hadn’t thought he would survive the night. Not because of the extent of his injuries; although the back of his left calf was reduced to stringy, half-eaten shreds, his screams had alerted a nearby neighbour. He had been rushed to hospital quickly enough that the blood loss had been fairly minimal, considering.

It was the fever that had them stumped. It was as though the bite had spread searing infection to every inch of Finn’s body faster than scientifically possible. Finn _burned_. He thrashed, and sweated, and screamed strangled insanities no matter how much morphine and anaesthetic they pumped into his veins.

Once it was clear that the seventeen-year-old could not be forced to lose consciousness, the nurses had had to restrain him. Thick padded leather restraints, like something out of a medical horror film, approved by the attending doctor and strapped onto Finn’s wrists and ankles after he flailed and struck a pretty blond nurse across the face. But even these were limited, ineffective; Finn simply continued to howl, and strain, and cry as though every bone in his body were on fire, every nerve shredded with agony.

The entire Trauma Ward was filled with the sound of Finn’s screams for hours. Kurt, Carole, and Burt could hear him three hallways down; they huddled together in the waiting room, tears streaming down Kurt and Carole’s faces. Burt was white as a sheet.

When a nervous-looking young doctor came to them a few hours in to inform the family that they had no idea what was wrong with their son, that he wasn’t responding to anaesthesia, and that they weren’t sure he would survive the night, Kurt’s dad finally let out a choked sob – before gasping and clutching at his chest. They moved Burt to a chair as the young doctor scurried away, clinging to one another as Carole sobbed helplessly into her husband’s shoulder.

By morning, though, Finn had begun to respond to the medication. His fever went down, slowly, until eventually his screams subsided and he finally – _finally_ – drifted into a drugged sleep. The actual wound, which had been somewhat ignored in favour of the boy’s inexplicable resistance to all approved hospital painkillers and sedatives, actually looked much better than anticipated. An hour later, once Finn had been unquestionably stabilized, another nurse was sent to inform the family. It was the single most relieved and grateful Kurt Hummel had ever felt in his life. He’d had to sit down in order to avoid passing out from sheer disbelief and gratitude toward a deity he didn’t believe in.

There had been more tears, after that. More fear. But eventually, two days later, they were allowed to take Finn home.

Burt had firmly put his foot down on keeping Finn in hospital for another week so that the doctors could attempt to understand the fever and the drug resistance – “he needs to be home now, resting, not being prodded by the same bunch of quacks that couldn’t even keep him under to operate on” – and, for a while, Finn seemed to recover shockingly quickly. The night of blind agony was entirely gone from his memory, although the young man was embarrassed to hear how his shrieking cries had been heard by not only his family, but practically the entirety of Lima Memorial. Kurt had been relieved. No one deserved to feel the way Finn had sounded that night.

Finn’s destroyed calf healed quicker than expected, the skin turning red and shiny much quicker than either Burt or Carole expected. Although the seventeen-year-old was devastated that he would likely have to get at least a partial prosthetic, his family’s insistence that he was damn lucky to be alive kept him somewhat light-hearted. After a week, he and Kurt were back to playfully sniping at each other – if, on Kurt’s part, somewhat cautiously and with kid-gloves on. He received twelve get-well cards from various school friends and relatives, as well as a bundle of flowers from the school administration. He was getting better.

At least, until two and a half weeks after the accident.

The fever came back, sudden and shocking, hotter and evidently more excruciating than ever. At five o’clock, they ate dinner as a family. By six o’clock, Carole was rubbing soothing circles into Finn’s back as her son clung helplessly to the bowl of the toilet and vomited the meal feebly into its depths. By seven o’clock, Finn was reduced to writhing uncontrollably in his bed, wailing and thrashing and sobbing into his sheets. Burt and Carole were downstairs debating the best way to get their son into the car to transport him to the emergency room when the sun dipped below the horizon.

  
(Once, much later, Kurt had asked his brother what it felt like to transform. He’d expected a flip response – perhaps, “worse than being tackled on the field, dude,” or “pretty much the worst thing ever”. Something to make the situation they were in somehow less terribly dire than it was.  
Instead, Finn had looked at him very seriously. He glanced away for a moment, brow furrowed, seeming to contemplate the question with great intensity.  
Kurt knows now that every bone in the werewolf’s body must fracture and break along dozens of points so that they can be remade, elongated or shortened. Every internal organ is liquefied; heart, kidneys, and lungs all ceasing to function before stretching into new shapes, new locations. The spinal cord snaps. Blood literally boils as the muscles all stretch and the skin melts. The vocal chords snap and the face shatters and distends, mouth open in a silent scream of agony.  
And, for every second of this, the wolf is entirely aware. Entirely awake.  
“I actually don’t think there are words,” Finn had finally said, and they had dropped the subject. Kurt had never asked again.)

  
On that day, Kurt had arrived home a few minutes after sunset, just as the moon was appearing gradually in the dusky sky. Clutching the prescription bag of painkillers he’d been frantically sent by his dad to refill at the pharmacy, he had stopped dead with his hand on the front doorknob at the sound of screaming coming from inside. Not Finn’s voice; Carole and Burt’s. Sounding hysterical and so, so frightened.

Later, he had no idea precisely what made him abandon the painkillers on the doorstep and dash into the garage to get his father’s rifle. Something about the screams, most likely. Terrified when they should have been devastated; too frantic to be grief.

Kurt Hummel is many things. On that day, he was a good student, a biting sarcastic, a fashionista, a rather flamboyant homosexual. He was, and still remains, also a very, very good shot. It is thus an indication of how earth-shatteringly shocked he was to open the door and find his dad face-first on the ground with an enormous creature –a wolf, but wrong and twisted and terrible – slashing deep wounds across his shoulders – Carole had already been flung across the room, hand and torso bleeding profusely – that the shot he fired into the wolf’s body missed the heart and instead lodged itself in the animal’s shoulder.

The wolf had howled, agonized, before dropping to the ground and charging for the now-open door so quickly it was only a blur. When Kurt had called an ambulance, ensured both his parents were alive, and run upstairs to check on Finn and found only blood-soaked sheets and deep scratch-marks in the walls, he had suspected the worst.

He had not expected his step-brother to find him the next day, battered and beaten and his ruined calf fully healed. He had not expected Finn – dressed in poorly-fitting clothes and covered in earth – to fall apart, begging for his forgiveness and collapsing in a sobbing heap at his feet.

\--

It is Artie who walks him up the two flights of stairs to ‘Blaine’s room’: Room 306, one of the many ever-so-slightly slightly rundown rooms within the motel the pack is currently taking over. On the way up, Artie— dashing as ever with his lean, muscled body and gorgeous blue eyes – makes stilted small talk about the motel’s history. Puck hasn’t made it clear whether the fight downstairs will be made pack-wide knowledge yet, and thus the brown-haired boy steers clear from the most obvious conversation choice.

Instead Kurt learns all about how the Woods’ Edge Motel went under in 1992, after the new highway was opened up and the ramshackle forest road its lies on suddenly became less appealing. The lack of attention paid toward this woodland road, which has been closed for ‘eventual maintenance’ for the past eight months, is the real reason they have set up base here for the next couple of months; the dozens of rooms are just a nice bonus.

It’s not particularly interesting information, but Kurt tries his best to look engaged.

“It’s a good thing we’ve got friends in high places,” Arties says into the silence of the hallway as they reach Blaine’s room. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to enjoy the little things. Like having internet access. Or electricity. Or running water.”

Kurt forces out a laugh, then turns to face the other boy before heading into the room – only to find that Artie is looking right at him. There is a small, understanding look on his face as he claps Kurt on the shoulder with a broad hand. Artie then hands Kurt his cloth bag – he had insisted on carrying it up the stairs – and turns and walks down the hallway.

Sometimes, Kurt finds it very hard to believe that this is the same boy he’d seen in years-old Facebook photos from before he’d been bitten. Bespectacled, bean-stalk thin. His body seemingly forever-broken, legs dangling useless in front of his chair.

Shaking his head, Kurt twists the knob and pushes his way inside Blaine’s room. There is no point in locking doors here; any member of the pack could easily break through such a flimsy barrier.

Once the door is closed, Kurt leans his back against it. Taking a deep breath, Kurt runs a hand through his hair and lets his gaze fall on his boyfriend’s temporary home. It’s looking more lived-in than the last time Kurt came to visit two weeks ago, but he can see that Blaine’s duffel bag is still only half-unpacked, shoved into a corner. The pack is constantly on the move – it’s safer that way, leaves less chance for discovery – and as a result they rarely stay in any one location longer than a few months. But the room is neat, and warm, and smells of Blaine in a deep and unmistakable way that makes Kurt’s shoulders relax and some of the tension seep from his chest.

 _I need to shower,_ Kurt thinks, and heads for the bathroom. Not because of the ten hour drive, although that has not been kind to him; his skin feels sallow, clothes rumpled and unpleasant after the long trip. He needs to shower because of what day it is. Senses uncontrollably sharp, Blaine will almost certainly be reduced to a growling, jealous mess if he comes back from his meeting with the pack leader only to find Kurt reeking of Dave Karofsky. Although Kurt himself cannot smell the larger boy on him – sometimes human senses are useful like that – he can imagine the thick scent of another man’s anger and desire coming off of him in sick, pungent waves.

When he gets into the bathroom, the first thing he notices is that his shirt is ruined. Four horizontal slashes have left the fabric of if shredded and dangling at his chest; he realizes that Dave must have swiped at him with near-moon sharpened nails when Blaine and Finn shoved him away. He feels more upset about the irreparable damage to his shirt than about the fact that he was a hair’s breadth away from losing some skin, and wonders if that means he has been living around his brother’s kind for too long.

After popping three Tylenol from the well-stocked medicine bag on the bathroom counter, Kurt strips his clothes, gets into the shower, and turns the water on so hot it leaves his skin flushing bright red. The shampoo, conditioner, and body wash are all scent-free, but Kurt knows they will serve their purpose. He pays special attention to his wrists, back, and face, scrubbing hard over those areas again and again until he’s fairly certain the smell won’t be offensively strong anymore. Once he’s finished he turns off the water, towels off, and applies some of the scent-free moisturizer he’d left with Blaine after his last visit.

Kurt heads back into the other room and finds a t-shirt and a pair of jeans of Blaine’s that don’t look absolutely ridiculous on him. The jeans cut off slightly above his ankles, but the shirt is soft and comfortable. The clothes he had been wearing get tied off in a plastic bag and tossed into the laundry pile. Newly clean and dressed, Kurt settles down with Blaine’s laptop on the queen-sized motel bed to wait for his boyfriend’s return.

When the door finally creaks open and Blaine pokes his head inside twenty minutes later, Kurt quickly looks over to see what kind of mood Blaine is in. It is the day before the full moon, and werewolf emotions are genuinely volatile and hard to control as the pearly-white mark against the night sky becomes fuller, more tantalizing. It is entirely possible that Blaine might still be fuming, fierce and possessive after the run-in with Dave.

But Blaine shuts the door softly behind him, and Kurt can instantly see that his boyfriend looks more abashed than angry. His posture is apologetic, tentative – even slightly embarrassed. Kurt closes the computer (he’d only been on YouTube, anyways) and turns to smile at the curly-haired boy.

“Hey, you,” says Kurt.

“Hey,” says Blaine, padding gently across the bedroom floor and taking a seat next to Kurt on the bed. He isn’t wearing any shoes, and there is an unsure expression on Blaine’s face. When it is just the two of them, it is sometimes hard to remember that lying just beneath the soft-spoken, sweet exterior is a feral animal pining to be let loose. The shorter boy raises a hand to Kurt’s face, carefully cradling his cheek. “Are you really okay?”

“Well,” drawls Kurt, stretching out the word into an attempt at playfulness. “Aside from my Dolce and Gabana shirt now lying in tatters...” At Blaine’s beseeching looks, he trails off. Dropping the light-hearted tone, Kurt reaches over and places a hand on his boyfriend’s knee. “I’m really okay. Trust me when I say that I’ve honestly faced worse than a hormone-addled ex-football player.”

“I know you have,” says Blaine, a tiny smile pulling across his lips. His eyes only contain the slightest hint of yellow around the edges; the rest is their usual warm hazel. Blaine’s hand strokes a trail of heat down Kurt’s exposed neck, and the slighter boy leans into the inhuman warmth of Blaine’s skin. The muscles are sore there, and the heat feels good against them. Blaine moves to rub Kurt’s wrist, and the slender boy winces. Those will almost certainly bruise.

After a moment’s silence, Blaine pulls his legs up and clambers fully onto the bed. He curls onto his side in a lying position; Kurt wordlessly puts the laptop on the floor and lies down in front of him, his back to Blaine’s chest. Blaine curls a protective arm around Kurt’s small waist, and the weight and heat of it is reassuring. Blaine’s breath tickles the hairs on the back of Kurt’s neck with every exhalation, and the heat of his body coiled all around him is soothing and familiar.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to pull him off sooner.” Blaine’s quiet voice whispers into his ear after a few minutes spent wrapped around each other. Their feet are twined together at the bottom of the bed, and Blaine’s toes are absently brushing against Kurt’s ankles. Kurt lets out a tired sigh.

“Don’t be. It’s my own fault. I knew I probably shouldn’t risk coming even if no one were home, but...” Kurt thinks of the crumpled packages strewn across the motel entranceway. One of had contained a set of DVDs – _The Blind Side, Remember the Titans, Run Fatboy Run_. He hopes that hadn’t been one of the ones crushed underfoot. “But it was his birthday. And Carole was just... yeah.” Kurt shakes his head minutely, and then lets out a small laugh. “You’d think that after three years, I’d know by now to trust my instincts around you guys.”

Blaine presses a kiss to the back of Kurt’s neck. It’s meant to be comforting, but they haven’t seen each other for two weeks. Instead, the gentle touch of lips against sensitive skin makes Kurt inhale sharply and a spike of heat rush between his legs.

“You do know that, love,” says Blaine. “Your brother can just be extraordinarily dim sometimes.” Kurt knows that his boyfriend can smell the beginning of his arousal, but Blaine makes no indication that he notices. Instead, he continues to speak in that calm, quiet voice of his. It’s a courtesy; one of many they’ve had to work out in the two years they’ve been together. “How are Burt and Carole doing?” continues Blaine, and Kurt’s heart sinks.

“They’re... as fine as they can be, I suppose. They miss him. I think it breaks their hearts every time I leave them to come stay with you guys for a few days, or a week. When I come home I can always see the unasked questions in their eyes. It kills them to be left behind.” Blaine’s arm squeezes Kurt’s waist, and Kurt smiles. “I think they’re still absurdly grateful that I’m back in their lives at all, though, so that’s something. And Carole’s really good at writing with her left hand now.”

“That’s good,” says Blaine, and Kurt moves so that their bodies are pressed even closer together.

Mostly, Kurt thinks, Burt and Carole are frightened of making Kurt leave again. Of saying the wrong thing, or pushing too hard for news of Finn, or asking too many questions that Kurt can’t answer. They are terrified that Kurt will suddenly take off, disappearing into the night the way both he and Finn did three years ago.

The day after Burt and Carole had been viciously attacked in their own living room, both of the parents stabilized but unconscious in Lima Memorial, Finn and Kurt had fled town in Burt’s truck. The absence of knapsacks’ worth of clothes and Burt’s rifle was all that was left for them to find at home. Leaving only a pair of notes on each of their hospital beds had been cruel, but necessary. Kurt hadn’t returned home for eight months.

Finn never did.

Burt and Carole had already lost one son: they would do anything in their power to avoid driving Kurt away.

“I’m fairly certain I’m going to eviscerate Karofsky, though.” Blaine’s voice is light, but there is an undertone of seriousness that makes Kurt roll his eyes.

“Blaine, you know it wasn’t Dave’s fault. Not really. It’s the day before the full moon; his hormones must have been going crazy. He wasn’t _actually_ trying to hurt me. This isn’t another Jesse St. James situation.” The arm around Kurt’s middle tightens, and he mentally slaps himself in the forehead. _Way to find the worst possible time to bring up that incident, Hummel._

“Plus,” Kurt continues staunchly. “Anything you do to him will be small potatoes compared to how embarrassed he’s going to feel after the full moon.” Kurt laughs, a high clear sound in the quiet room. “I mean, not only did he attack a higher-ranking pack member’s human: he was actually fired up enough to kiss a _man_. I’m sure by next week everyone will be on him for being so moon-crazed he couldn’t even go after the right gender.”

There is a pause. Then Blaine lets out a small laugh. “Of course. Yeah. You’re... probably right.”

He can feel the weight of Blaine’s arm unfurl from around his waist. Then Blaine’s hand is on his shoulder, gently guiding him into a change of position. Kurt follows easily, willingly. After a moment’s adjustment, they are lying face to face on top of the rough motel sheets. Blaine reaches up and cards a hand through Kurt’s damp, unstyled hair; any decent product smells too strongly for the pack, and whenever Kurt comes to stay he forces himself to leave it lying flat and boring.

“I’m not actually angry at Karofsky,” admits Blaine reluctantly, looking Kurt straight in the eye. His fingers brush through the damp strands of Kurt’s hair. Blaine’s curls are long and untamed, a dark contrast against the sterile white of the bed linens. The hint of yellow edging along his eyes is captivating. “I’m angry with myself. It just... it tears me up that I can’t be around to keep you safe all the time.”

The words make Kurt’s lips thin, and Blaine’s hand shifts to his exposed throat. “I know you don’t like to admit it,” Blaine continues, voice subdued and faraway as he begins to drag two fingernails ever-so-lightly over the skin of Kurt’s throat. “But you’re so... _brittle_ , Kurt. At least compared to us. So breakable. You could get hit by a car, or tracked down by another wolf, or... or I don’t know, trip and fall. And that would be the end. You’d be gone. And that’s... that’s so scary to me.” His boyfriend’s words are full of something raw and real, bitter honesty and genuine fear.

“One day you can turn me,” says Kurt, inhaling at the touch along his neck. “You know I’m not ready yet, but... one day.”

“Mmm,” murmurs Blaine, as though he hasn’t heard anything Kurt’s just said.

His boyfriend’s nails are more elongated, sharper than usual: they always are the day before the change. Even the feather-light touch as they skim along Kurt’s skin is just a fraction of added pressure away from being enough to slice, to tear. To draw blood.

Kurt’s heart rate remains slow, and constant, and calm. The pressure against his neck is no danger; Blaine would never do anything to hurt him. But there is a suspicion growing at the back of his mind at Blaine’s words, a certainty filling up his entire body with low-burning dread. Carefully, delicately, Kurt reaches up and stills Blaine’s arm. His boyfriend pulls the appendage away, and all at once the hint of sharpness along his throat is gone. Blaine looks at him, confused.

“Blaine, what did you and Puck talk about?”

That his eyes dart quickly away is indication enough that Kurt isn’t going to like the answer. Blaine’s body jerks abruptly, as if to wanting to bolt: long experience has given Blaine an extremely well-developed fight or flight reflex. However, a hand on his arm is enough to keep him in place. Physically, there is no way that Kurt could restrain Blaine from doing anything he wants. The gesture, however, is enough. Blaine sighs and lets the slighter boy guide him back down onto the bed.

A long moment of silence hangs between them as Blaine visibly attempts to find the right words to describe his conversation with the pack leader. He opens his mouth as if to speak a few times, always closing it before any words can be spoken. Eventually, he begins.

“It’s not you. He... he was really clear about that, Kurt. Hell, you’ve been with the pack – in a manner of speaking, at least, off and on – for longer than I have.” The words seem to physically pain Blaine to speak, and there is a sinking feeling in Kurt’s stomach. “It’s just that... there’s been some talk. Finn is pretty much settled in now, what with him and Rachel, and Puck doesn’t like having unnecessary conflict between pack members. Not that you’re unnecessary, or – I don’t mean – _fuck_ , Kurt...” Blaine lets out a small noise of distress. “It’s just that today, it was three pack members fighting each other like children over someone who is inherently an outsider. And... he thinks we need to find a solution.”

Once upon a time, the blunt phrasing would have rendered Kurt into bristling, huffing flurry. Being called _unnecessary_ , _outsider_ – in another life, Kurt can imagine himself throwing a hissy fit to end all hissy fits in response. But after three years, Kurt understands pack culture possibly better than its own members. He _is_ an outsider in this, a problem to be solved. Discussing his unusual situation in any other way was only sugar-coating.

Plus, some part of him has been expecting this decision for years. A human living with a werewolf pack, even on a discontinuous basis, was insanely rare. It caused problems, issues of secrecy. Fights. Conflict.

Kurt lets out a breath. “Okay. Okay, it’s all right. I thought this might... but it doesn’t really matter. They can’t touch us, Blaine, or what we have. Not in the ways that matter. And Finn and I will manage. I don’t want to be cut off from him, either. So... we’ll work it out, okay?”

Blaine’s lips tighten, and he nods. Reaches over and begins to stroke Kurt’s arm, slow pets from shoulder to elbow and back again. Kurt knows that the contact is more for Blaine’s sake than it is for his own.

“He gave us four choices,” starts Blaine tentatively. “I’m not going to lie, Kurt, we fought about this. I don’t see why your situation has to change just because some dumbass can’t keep it in his pants. But Puck was pretty firm. Having you around, human and spoken for, but “unclaimed”?” Blaine momentarily stops the soft touches along Kurt’s arm to raise his fingers in an air quote, and Kurt knows that the word is not his own. “Is going to have to change.”

“Okay,” says Kurt, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. “What are our choices?”

Blaine takes a deep breath. “The first is that I can leave the pack. Try going it alone.”

Kurt stares at him. “That... really isn’t an option, Blaine.”

“It isn’t,” agrees Blaine, shaking his head sadly. “You know that I would if I could. They’re my family, but I would leave them to be with you in a heartbeat. But I just... I can’t handle the transformations alone yet. I haven’t been... like this... for long enough. At least when we’re all here together, we can control each other. It makes it bearable. Without that companionship, the wolf is...”

“Relentless. I know.”

“I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from killing.” He shudders. “Even the transformations themselves are an issue. That pain...” Blaine raises his own hand into the air and stares at it for a long moment. Perhaps imagining it stretching, breaking. Claws bursting from underneath the nails. Skin viscous, coarse black hair sprouting from every pore. “Being with my brothers and sisters makes it survivable.”

He doesn’t say ‘bearable’, because no one can really _bear_ pain like that. It can only be survived, screaming and wailing and begging for death.

Blaine shakes his head, lowers his hand back onto Kurt’s shoulder. “I know that you don’t want to hear this, Kurt. But if we had to, you and I... we could stop seeing each other.”

“No.”

“Kurt, we need to consider –”

“You know what? No. No, we don’t,” Kurt snaps. Blaine opens his mouth to speak, but Kurt keeps going. “Blaine, I want to be with you. In a forever kinda way, all right? And I know that this is the part in the – the werewolf handbook, or whatever, where you tell the sweet, innocent damsel that she should go lead a normal life. That it’ll be safer, or easier.” Kurt is babbling now, propped up on one elbow and words streaming out of his mouth unstoppably. “But Blaine: I’m not a little girl. I’m not innocent. And I’m already pretty fucking involved in all of this shit. Breaking up with you wouldn’t make my brother any less a werewolf, okay?” He barks out a laugh, raising two fingers into air quotations. “‘Normal’ isn’t an option for me anymore, Blaine.”

The stunned expression on Blaine’s face is enough to make Kurt embarrassed for his outburst, but not enough so to regret the words that have been pent up inside him, dying for release, for so long. Kurt is breathing faster now, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks from the unpolished confession in combination with his nearness to Blaine’s heat-emanating skin.

Eventually his boyfriend’s expression softens, something warm and deep and understanding coming into his eyes.

“All right,” murmurs Blaine, and all at once Kurt _needs_ to be closer to him. Blaine doesn’t react with any surprise when the slighter boy scrambles on top of him, wrapping his arms around Blaine’s neck and drawing his legs up as though being carried. On a normal person his weight would be uncomfortable. Blaine just scoots up into a sitting position and scoops Kurt up into his lap. Holds him close. “All right, love,” he says again, and Kurt curls up tighter into him.

After a few moments, Blaine speaks again.

“The third option is for me to turn you.” Neutral. Carefully dispassionate.

Kurt breathes a deep sigh into Blaine’s shoulder. “That’s... not ideal.”

“I know.”

In all of the fairytales, the taint of the wolf is most remembered for the dramatic nature of the monthly transformations. The unbearable pain, the uncontrollability. The unleashing of bloody violence against innocents. But on a practical, day-to-day basis, these difficulties are far surpassed by the changes lycanthropy wrecks in the other twenty-nine days of the month. The human wolf is blessed with improved strength, enhanced senses, and stronger instincts – but these are a curse as much as a gift. A heightened sense of smell makes it practically impossible for werewolves – especially young ones – to bear being around large groups of people without becoming overwhelmed, enraged. Increased aggressiveness in combination with perceiving human beings as either _threat_ or _prey_ generally results in bloodshed within a few days of the wolf trying to integrate back into human life. The lack of companionship of a pack is also enough to drive recently-turned wolves to madness; for the most part, human companionship simply does not compare.

“There’s so much that I want to do with my life, Blaine. Things that would be impossible if I turned.” Kurt’s voice is muffled to his own ears. “I want to perform on a stage in front of a thousand people. I want to sing and have people recognize my voice. If... if I have to, I will. Ever since we found the pack – ever since I found you, I’ve known that I’m going to be turned one day. In my head, it’s the only ending. The conclusion at the end of the story.” He lets out a shaky breath. “This would just be... a little bit earlier than I would like.”

“You’ve already had to give up so much,” whispers Blaine, and Kurt squeezes into him. “So much, and you deserve to have a life. A career, before...”

“Yeah,” says Kurt, before the answer occurs to him. It is so obvious, so simple, that he cannot believe they haven’t thought of it yet. “ _Blaine_ ,” he exclaims, pushing himself up on Blaine’s shoulders so as to look him in the eyes. “Blaine, why don’t we just mate?”

“How did you –?” blinks Blaine, surprise smoothing out his dark features. “That was Puck’s fourth option,” he continues, carefully neutral.

“It would solve _everything_.” Kurt’s voice is growing louder with excitement, words tumbling together in a flood of exhilaration. “We could do it next month, and then I wouldn’t smell like a delectable treat to your everyone anymore; I’d smell like _yours_. I’d be claimed, so I could visit without causing any conflict. It would even help with the safety thing! Don’t human mates heal a bit faster, don’t get hurt as easily? And even if I encountered you while transformed, I wouldn’t be a target. I’d be someone to _protect_.”

“I don’t think you’re thinking this through.” Blaine’s voice is strained, looking up at Kurt with something so, so vulnerable in his eyes. “If we did this, I would never be able to let you go. We... we would be each other’s for the rest of our lives, Kurt. Mating is _forever_.”

“So are _we_ ,” insists Kurt. “Plus, the pack isn’t going to stay in Missouri forever. I won’t always be able to drop everything and just make the ten hour drive. Eventually, you’re going to head West. I can’t think of a better way to keep us connected – isn’t enhanced awareness of each another one of those whole mating-perks?”

“It is, but – I – how do you even _know_ that?”

Kurt gives him a withering look. “Please. Like I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you without doing any research at all. God, you can be silly sometimes.”

The vulnerability has spread to Blaine’s entire demeanour now; he is entirely too small and frail-looking for someone currently holding his boyfriend as though he were weightless. Blaine’s untamed eyebrows are furrowed together.

“You’ve thought about this before?” There is a slight tremble in Blaine’s voice, expression unreadable. “You... want to spend the rest of your life with me?”

“Of course I do,” says Kurt, matter-of-factly, before a horrible idea occurs to him. He recoils, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. “Oh, God. You don’t want to.” Kurt’s head swims in a haze of mortification and hurt. “You don’t want me.”

With such speed Kurt can’t even comprehend the movement, he is shoved onto his back and slammed to the bed by an immovable force. Blaine is on top of him, breathing hard, the yellow spread once more to every corner of his eyes and crackling with possessive heat. Kurt’s hands are pinned above his head in a pale imitation of the confrontation with Karofsky hours previous. But this time Kurt wants them there. Wants to feel Blaine’s hands keep him in place, unrelenting and hard.

But not painful. Never painful. Even with the wolf just barely held back so close to the moon, Blaine would never hurt him.

“Of course I want you,” growls Blaine, grinding their hips together viciously. Kurt groans; Blaine is hard, and oh, _god_ , the heat of him. “I want you so badly it _aches_ , Kurt, all the time. You’re so fucking perfect. The way you look, the way you _smell_. Want to claim you. Make you mine, forever. No one else’s.”

“Yes,” Kurt gasps, leaning into the touch as Blaine licks a long stripe up his neck.

“Can barely hold back. So hot, so _beautiful_. It hurts to look at you sometimes. Makes me want to...” Blaine trails off as his sharp teeth trail over Kurt’s jugular, and Kurt _moans_. Blaine pulls back quickly, panting, and Kurt can still feel the hardness pressed against him.

“I want you to mate with me. I want you to be mine.” says Blaine, and the words are so honest they make Kurt’s heart hurt. The werewolf still has his hands pinned above his head, constrained and safe. “But I don’t want to ruin your life, Kurt.”

“You won’t.” Kurt is breathy, wanton. His entire body is trembling with want, the heat between his legs unbearable and desperate to be touched. Knowing it is unfair of him, he goes for the low blow. “Besides...can you really refuse me that kind of protection?”

And that’s all it takes. Blaine’s mouth slams against his own, hot and frantic and possessive. His tongue forces its way deep into Kurt’s willing mouth, taking all that is offered and more. Kurt strains against Blaine’s hand, his whole body thrumming with desire. Kurt’s wrists ache, but that doesn’t matter. He can feel Blaine’s tongue worrying over the same sore patch on his lip, and after a moment he realizes that it is the same place Karofsky bit him earlier. The idea that Blaine is trying to erase Karofsky’s touch, even subconsciously – and that Blaine must still be able to taste the blood – makes arousal spike within him, hot and hard. Kurt groans into Blaine’s mouth, and Blaine grinds their hips together desperately.

“Mine,” Blaine growls against his lips, and Kurt shudders helplessly. He can feel the pent-up strength lurking just beneath Blaine’s skin; in his muscles, in his sinew, in his blood. Straining to bite, and tear, and mark. Kurt knows that just beneath the surface of Blaine’s mind, the wolf wants to hold Kurt down slam into him without preparation, hard and fast. To make him howl, and whine, and cry out. Wants to make him sing in pain as he drags his claws across Kurt’s pale chest and draws blood to lap up in long strokes of his tongue.

But they’ve done this before – rarely on the day before the full moon, true. But Blaine is still well-versed in the art of restraint. The curly-haired boy draws back, panting raggedly, and begins to remove his own clothes. Kurt takes the opportunity to quickly shuck his jeans and t-shirt: if he doesn’t, Blaine won’t be able to stop himself from tearing them off. He is just able to remove the jeans before Blaine is on him again, naked, pressing wet kisses with a hint of sharp teeth down Kurt’s long body. Kurt’s hands are already tangled weakly in the sheets by the time Blaine kisses his way down between his legs.

When he reaches Kurt’s cock, Blaine licks a long stripe up the length before taking the whole thing into his mouth. Kurt lets out a keening cry as the impossible, incomprehensible heat of Blaine’s mouth surrounds him. It’s sloppy, desperate. Blaine laps at the tip to catch any trace of precome, tongue rolling around the sensitive head and making Kurt sob with pleasure.

Blaine is taking extra care of his teeth, but every so often they graze – barely perceptible, hardly even there and nowhere near hard enough to hurt – against the skin of Kurt’s cock. It makes Kurt gasp and sharp warmth shoot up his spine; makes his stomach tighten and his toes curl. When it happens again, unbearable pleasure slams through Kurt’s body and he has to jerk away to stop himself from coming.  
“ _Please_ ,” he begs, so close he can feel his orgasm tingling at the tips of his fingers, just waiting to be released. Blaine’s lips are reddened, swollen and wet with saliva. He looks up and meets Kurt’s eyes from his position above his cock, and the look in his eyes is so animalistic, so _raw_ , that it almost makes Kurt come right there. He nods and crawls up the bed, reaching over into the bedside table. Next to the standard-issue Bible in the drawer is a small container of lube, and Blaine squeezes a generous amount onto his fingers -- nails dulled to their usual human length and sharpness with the sexual hormones pumping through Blaine’s body -- before returning.

Kurt spreads his legs for his boyfriend’s touch, and the sight makes Blaine growl. He leans forward. His finger circles Kurt’s tight entrance, swirling slippery lubricant around the sensitive skin, before finally pushing inside. The intrusion makes Kurt cry out; they haven’t been together for two weeks, and the stretch of Blaine’s finger inside of him is shocking. But a moment later Blaine crooks his finger ever-so-slightly, and Kurt is whimpering as Blaine rubs against _that spot_ inside of him. It’s unbearably good, and when Blaine adds another slippery finger Kurt groans and pushes back onto them.

Soon Blaine sets up a steady rhythm, fingers stretching him and making him moan, powerless against the burn and the searing waves of pleasure as Blaine brushes against the place inside of him again and again.

“So fucking beautiful,” rumbles Blaine, voice low and uneven. He is so far from his usual gentlemanly self, undone and unconstrained by the closeness of the full moon. His other hand is moving on his own cock as he prepares Kurt, touching himself hard and fast. “You’re going to moan when I fuck you, aren’t you? Going to be so tight and good for me, Kurt.”

Kurt nods, frenzied with sensation, the feeling growing inside him so _strong_ , so _much_. Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement, feels the cool addition of more lube before letting out a choked whine as Blaine adds a third finger. It _burns_ , but in a way that makes Kurt feel so full and wanted that he is almost crying.

“Going to be all mine by next month. Do you want that, Kurt? Do you want to be all mine – to do what I like with you, forever?”

“ _Yes_ ,” sobs Kurt. The stretch is so unbearably good, but he needs _more_. “ _Please_ , Blaine, I want it. I want _you_ , I need you, _please_ –”

All at once the fingers are gone, and Kurt wants to cry with how _empty_ he feels – before a slick, blunt pressure is there, and Blaine’s cock is pushing inside. Filling him up, unbearably hot and the heat _so good_ as Blaine pushes deeper, deeper, until he is fully seated inside Kurt’s body.

“Hands,” growls Blaine, and Kurt’s hands immediately fly above his head. Blaine reaches up and pins them with one hand, the other supporting his weight as he begins to fuck Kurt in earnest, hard and deep. Kurt moans, because the drag of Blaine’s cock against his prostate is sweet, and good, and Blaine is making him so full, so wanted. So claimed.

Stars are bursting behind Kurt’s eyelids every time Blaine thrusts into him, and pressure is building at the gathering at the base of his spine. Overwhelming and _so fucking hot_ , the slippery heat of Blaine’s cock moving inside him almost impossible to bear, and when Blaine releases Kurt’s hands and reaches down to stroke his cock once, twice, Kurt can’t hold back anymore. He comes, wailing, as Blaine’s mouth slams over his own and devours the sounds in a mash of teeth, and lips, and tongue. It’s bright, and hot, and his whole body is on fire as Blaine fucks him through his orgasm, leaving him trembling and weak. His prostate is over-sensitive now, and shocks of pleasure-pain make him moan into Blaine’s mouth.

It doesn’t take long for Blaine to come, growling, slamming into Kurt one last time so hard it makes him _gasp_. He stills, shaking, as he pulses liquid heat into Kurt’s body. Blaine clenches with pleasure as he comes, and he lets out a needy sound that is so completely _human_ that it makes Kurt’s heart soar even as he is so exhausted he can barely move.

They stay that way for a long moment, panting, before Blaine slowly pulls out. It makes Kurt release a tiny noise at the sudden emptiness – and then Blaine is leaning up over their sticky bodies to kiss him again. Kurt kisses back, body thrumming with the pleasure of release, tongue lazily sliding against Blaine’s.

When Blaine pulls away, there is a look of dazed worry on his face.

“You really meant what you said before?” he asks, and there is something so nakedly vulnerable in his voice that Kurt’s heart breaks a little. He leans up to kiss the uncertainty away.

“Yes,” he murmurs against Blaine’s lips. “I did.” The groan of pleasure and happiness his boyfriend releases into the kiss makes him grin despite the how utterly devastated and fatigued his body feels. He presses one last kiss to Blaine’s lips before pulling back. “Now let’s get cleaned up and go to bed.”

“I love you,” says Blaine, the words slightly non-sequitur and awkward. The difference his boyfriend now and in the throes of sex could not be more pronounced; Blaine is biting his lip nervously, real tenderness shining in his eyes. They’re mostly hazel again.

Blaine is both of these people, and he is neither. He is the wolf, and he is the man. He is a combination of the two that makes Kurt groan, and sigh, and laugh. That makes him moan with pleasure and cry with happiness.

Kurt smiles and runs a hand through Blaine’s soft, curly hair.

“I love you, too,” he whispers back, and kisses Blaine on the forehead.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blaine talks with Puck, the full moon comes, and there are questions for Tina.

The two of them rise early the next morning in order to usher Kurt out of the motel unnoticed, the new morning air brisk and damp. Dangling human flesh in front of a group of werewolves the day _before_ the full moon is bad enough, but doing so on the day _of_ the full moon is certifiably insane. Urges become practically impossible to resist when the promise of a shining, maddening rounded moon is practically tangible  in the air; as he walks Kurt down the stairs and to the door, Blaine is actively concentrating on not slamming the slender boy against the closest wall and having a repeat of last night.

Blaine has always been fairly good at restraint. He’s had lots of practice; first when he was growing up, and then later with the Warville pack. It is only since meeting Puck’s pack, since finding Kurt, that he has begun to understand that losing control every so often can be acceptable – or even beneficial – as long as it happens within a safe environment. But considering the hurry, Blaine decides that now is most definitely the time for self-control. He manages to keep the urges firmly within his own head; to act the gentleman he sometimes wishes he could still be.

When they reach the front door, Kurt leans in and gives him a goodbye kiss. The contact is brief: still sexy in its intimacy, but merely a quick touch of lips to lips. The wolf inside of him still paws and keens at the touch, wanting to be allowed to touch, to take. Blaine very pointedly does _not_ put his hands on Kurt’s waist, does _not_ pull him in close and trail bites along the length of that pale neck. A moment later Kurt pulls away. There is a slight flush in his ever-pale skin, and his light brown hair is askew from sleep. His lips are wet.

It never fails to shock Blaine how very innocent Kurt can look, considering the things they do together. Considering what they intend to do together.

 _I am going to mate with this boy_ , Blaine thinks stupidly. The hair on his arms stands on edge at the thought.

“Bye,” says Kurt in that beautiful voice of his, high and clear and ever-so-slightly delicate. He is looking very thin in one of Blaine’s t-shirts; though Kurt had brought an overnight bag, but had been ushered upstairs too quickly the previous night to be able to grab it from his truck. Blaine doesn’t mind; the sight of Kurt wearing his clothes is enough to make something hot and satisfying twinge deep in his stomach. 

Looking distinctly rumpled, Kurt continues, “I’ll only be staying at the motel in town just for the one night, okay? I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon; give you guys a chance to sleep off some of the aches and pains. And if you need me before then, you can always text me.”

This makes Blaine laugh. “Kurt, I’m pretty sure I’ve dealt with the change before. On a fairly regular schedule, in fact.”

“I wasn’t talking about the moon,” says Kurt, voice soft and private. Kurt places a hand on Blaine’s arm, and shivers run up and down Blaine’s spine. “Good luck with Puck,” he says, squeezes, and then turns to head toward his ancient blue truck. The vehicle looks nothing like Blaine would ever imagine a car of Kurt’s to appear. It is old and worn, and there is absolutely nothing trendy about it. It is these inconsistencies that make Kurt so irresistible, so maddening.

Before he can do something stupid, Blaine shuts the front door in order to block out the sight of Kurt, in sinfully tight pants, walking away down the path. He can still hear Kurt’s footsteps, gentle and delicate on the concrete.

“Bye,” Blaine whispers unnecessarily, closing his eyes and biting down on his lip to keep from barrelling after Kurt down the driveway. It takes a long moment for the need to pass, but he weathers it out. Clutches the doorknob so hard he almost dents it, focusing on breathing in and out.

Kurt Hummel wants to mate with him. Kurt, who is beautiful and funny and drives ten hours to see him at least two times a month without fail. Who can hold his own in a sniping fit with Santana when her eyes are almost entirely bled through with yellow and her claws are literally at the ready. Who smells so good – so tantalizingly, toe-curlingly good – that on a day like today, breathing in the smell of his hair is enough for Blaine to groan and bite his lip in order to stop from coming in his pants.

Who can deal with Blaine’s... _condition_ , and everything it entails.

The fact that this... incomprehensible boy wants to irrevocably tie their lives together – to let Blaine protect him, and keep him, and _have_ him for the rest of their lives...

It leaves Blaine trembling.

 Once Blaine can conceivably move again without potentially throwing the door open and chasing Kurt down, he lets go of the doorknob and heads down the wide main hallway to see if Puck is awake yet. It cannot be later than six in the morning: the house feel s unnaturally silent without the padding of bare feet or the conversation of his packmates. But Puck is an early riser, and Blaine wants to have this conversation as long before sunset as possible. He doesn’t trust himself to remain calm and concise with the wolf practically clawing at his skin, so close to escape.

The door to Room 103 is open. This is a safety precaution more so than any open display of comfort. Anything that allows the pack leader to recognize and respond to potential danger faster, even if only infinitesimally, is a good thing. Blaine only has to glance into the darkened room to see that Puck and Quinn are still curled up in bed together. The blonde’s back is cuddled up to his chest, and one of Puck’s large arms is draped over her swollen belly.

And then Blaine notices that Puck’s eyes are open. Staring right at him over Quinn’s delicate shoulder, alert and ready. Puck raises his eyebrows, gives Blaine a significant look; Blaine shakes his head, embarrassed at being caught intruding into the pack leader’s private space. But before Blaine can gesture at him to go back to sleep, Puck is already in motion. He skilfully extracts himself from his mate, then pads silently across the darkened room.

Blaine opens his mouth to speak but Puck fixes him with a stern look, nodding his head almost imperceptibly toward Quinn. She is still curled into the blankets with her small, pink mouth slightly open. Instead, Puck turns and leads them down the first-floor corridor until they reach a small separate common area with a few wobbly-looking chairs and a stained coffee table. Without a word, Puck closes the door – and then grabs one of the chairs and turns it around, straddling the seat and leaning both arms on its back. He arches one dark eyebrow.

“I really didn’t mean to wake you up,” insists Blaine, slightly awkward as he lowers himself onto the other rickety chair. “This can wait until later if you want to go back to bed.”

“It’s fine,” replies Puck, shrugging casually. “I haven’t really been asleep for at least a half hour, and I could practically smell your nervous energy ever since you woke up. You’re vibrating with it, man.”

The comment makes Blaine feel even more uncomfortable. Truth be told, even after living under the Puck’s roof for the past two years, Blaine still doesn’t really know the alpha very well. Up until yesterday, the only serious one-on-one conversation he’d ever had with Puck had been on the day of his arrival. Frantic and practically shaking from repressing the wolf, begging to be allowed to become part this unusual family.

Blaine had lived with the Warville pack for three years, having been taken under their wing in the wake of being turned. Wes, the Warville alpha, had been detail-oriented and observant. Sharp-tongued. The slim man had emphasized the importance of unity and uniformity in the face of struggle. The need to restrain the wolf, to lock it up both physically and mentally – to inhabit one of a sea of matching uniforms and cells.

But Blaine is a naturally rule-abiding person, and since joining Puck’s pack – this strange, diverse group of outcasts united together by a single condition – he hasn’t had much cause to converse privately with the pack leader. Blending in comes far too easily to Blaine, however much it might hurt him in the end.

He shifts, wincing as the cheap, plasticy upholstery squeaks beneath him. “I thought you might want to know that I talked to Kurt.”

“Cool,” Puck nods, expression serious. “What did you guys decide?”

“We figured that mating was the best available option.” When Puck does not immediately respond, Blaine continues. “I mean, Kurt’s not ready to turn, but this will be a good way to protect him when we’re not together. He’ll be that little bit stronger, heal a little bit quicker.”

Puck’s head is tilted slightly to the right, an unreadable expression on his face – and Blaine can’t stop himself from rambling. “I’ll be able to keep tabs on him this way, which will be nice. I understand that the mating process –”

“Why do you talk about him like that?”

Blaine blinks. “What?”

“Like you know what’s best for him better than he does.” Puck tilts his head to the other side. “Why do you talk about Kurt like he’s some delicate flower that needs your protection?” The words are blunt. Puck’s eyes are fixed on Blaine’s own. They are steeped in yellow; commanding and concentrated.

“I don’t – I...” Blaine trails off, caught unprepared. This is nothing like how he had imagined this conversation would go.

“Because he isn’t, you know.” Puck is still staring at him. His posture is relaxed-looking, sprawled over the chair; but Blaine can smell the slight tension in his body. “Hummel is a lot of things, but ‘weak’ isn’t one of them. He may not be wolf, but he’s one fierce fucker nonetheless.”

“I know that Kurt’s strong, Puck. Of course I know –”

“Do you want to know how I first met Kurt?”

The question catches Blaine entirely off-guard. The sum total of his knowledge of Finn and Kurt’s entry into the pack has been gleaned from Kurt’s own descriptions. Finn’s first transformation, the attack on their parents, the six months the two of them spent wandering alone, finding the pack. Broad strokes, as though small details like when and where and how were too painful to think about. Blaine had understood that feeling far too well.

But the chance to know more about Kurt’s past is too much to turn down, and he feels himself nodding in response.

“It was raining – pissing buckets, cats and dogs, all that crap. I was tracking down a feral wolf we’d all sensed at the last full moon – completely wild and all alone, going mad from locking itself up when it needed to run, to fight, to play. The rain was making finding the smell difficult, but I finally cornered them in this massive barn. I could smell the wolf inside, all human fear and repressed instincts. There was a hint of something else – something subtler – but it didn’t seem important. So I busted the doors down.”

Puck lets out a laugh; his expression remains hard, but a hint of amusement has seeped in. “The first thing I noticed was this tiny, pissed off little shit glaring at me down the barrel of a loaded rifle. He had his finger on the trigger – he meant fucking _business_ , man – and his presence was so large in my mind that I barely noticed the big, hulking dude beside him.

“And you know what Hummel said?” Blaine shakes his head, and Puck continues with great emphasis. “He says, ‘get the _fuck_ away from us’. Just _hisses_ it at me, loud and mean and serious as hell. There I am, twice his size, just having broken down a fucking bolted barn door with my bare hands – and this skinny little runt is completely willing to kill me or go down trying.” Puck shakes his head. “I swear, even though all my instincts were telling me that Finn was the one we’d been looking for... for a moment, I had no idea which one of them was the wolf and which one of them was the human.”

Puck holds his eyes. Holds them, locked and still, and eventually Blaine has no choice but to blink and look away. The pack leader lets the sign of submission rest unspoken in the air before continuing to speak.

“Anderson, I’m not against the two of you taking the plunge. In fact, I think it’s a damn good idea. But you don’t have to pretend like you’re doing this to keep him safe, or because to keep track of him or some shit. Yeah, those might be factors. But in the end, you’re mating with Kurt because you want to. Because you want him to be entirely yours. To have him, and keep him, and to give yourself over to him in return. There’s nothing wrong with that, dude, and it’s insulting to both of you to pretend that you’re doing this for all these crock-of-shit- ‘noble’ reasons.”

Blaine’s face is burning. He cannot look at Puck, cannot make himself look up from the ground. The linoleum here is an ugly shade of brown. There is an oddly-shaped stain next to his left foot.

There is the noise of chair legs scraping against the floor, followed by footsteps. Then, Puck’s broad hand is clapping down on his shoulder. The touch is firm, but kind in its own way.

“You’re allowed to want this, Anderson. It’s okay to be a little selfish sometimes; Hummel can take it. We clear on that?”

He nods, looks up at the pack leader. Puck really is enormous, he thinks, glancing at the well-defined muscles in his extended arm. Blaine’s own body is nothing to sneeze at – toned and compact, since the wolf doesn’t like to settle for anything less than outstanding physical health. But the Puck exudes a specific energy; a dark, strong presence that demands respect and gives it in return. This dark, indescribable charisma is something that Wes simply never had.

Puck is smiling, a confident stretch of lips over teeth that manages to show off his slightly sharpened canines. “Good,” he says. “Then congratulations, man. Mating with Quinn was the best decision I ever made, and I hope yours goes as well as ours did.”

And, winking, the pack leader claps Blaine on the shoulder one last time – and strides out of the room. Blaine is left sitting on the rickety chair, new information swirling through his head and the haze of the near-moon beginning to grip his heart.

 

-

 

When Blaine had been living with the Warville pack, full moons had practically been ritualistic in nature. The Warville pack was stationary; it had made its home in the same rural stone-hewn building in Pennsylvania for generations, posing as an all boys’ academy complete with matching uniforms. Every month the pack would into the basement, where individual reinforced cells had been added in subsequent renovations. Before the change, each pack member was supposed to intone a traditional passage, begging that the wolf pass them by. There were no windows in the basement; Blaine had transformed in a room the size of a walk-in closet without even the satisfaction of seeing the moon hanging in its terrible fullness.

In retrospect, it is no surprise that spending three years with the Warville Pack left Blaine so wrecked, such an uncontrollable ball of anxiety. That pack had been repressive to the point of cruelty; harsh and unforgiving in its rules and restrictions.

In contrast, Puck’s pack is mobile, malleable. The entire group relocates every few months; across the country, into Canada, anything to avoid drawing attention. Its members are encouraged to visit other packs during the month if they so desire. New arrivals are a fairly common occurrence, and are always met with friendly teasing and quick acceptance: Sam Evans has only been with them for four months, but in some ways it feels as though the blonde-haired boy has always been there. They may not always like each other, but love and acceptance are never in short supply.

Experiencing the full moon as a pack instead of partitioning each other off, letting the wolf be restrained by the firm hand of the alpha instead of cold stone and metal bars – it all serves to make the wolf inside of them more complacent. By the end of his stay with the Warville pack, Blaine had actually felt as though his body was in danger of combusting with the unbearable tension of the wolf beneath his skin.

The few times a wolf had escaped from the Warville academy, too, had been... brutal. Tragic. By letting the entire pack roam together, they police each other in a far more effective manner than walls or bars ever could.

After he had joined, Blaine had finally stopped feeling as though he was slowly going insane.

Instead of solemn and ceremonial, trooping out together into the woods for the full moon with this pack always makes Blaine feel buzzed with excitement – as well as slightly awkward. No matter how much they care for each other, in the final half-hour before moonrise there is very little on anyone’s mind except for the thrum of the moon’s ghost in the sky, the wolf straining at their skin. It makes for stilted conversation. Generally their hike into the woods is steeped in anticipatory silence, broken only by the plodding of their feet on the earth and the occasional interjected comment.

Tonight, however, Finn Hudson makes a point of hanging back to talk to him as the pack walks through the foliage. His eyes are bright yellow, but Blaine knows his own must be as well. There is little to be done about that with the moon so close he can practically taste it on his tongue.

“Hey,” says Finn, falling into step beside Blaine. Neither of them are wearing shoes; there is simply no point. “I wanted to say thanks. For, you know. Looking after my brother yesterday.”

Considering the decision he and Kurt reached last night, the irony of another wolf thanking him for protecting his prospective mate is not lost on Blaine. But Puck’s warning from this morning are still fresh, and he tries to choose his words carefully.

“Of course,” says Blaine, reaching up to push his unruly curls out of his eyes as they walk through the darkening woods. “Kurt is the most important person in the world to me: I’ll always be there for him when I can.”

“Wish one of us could have got there a little bit faster,” grumbles Finn, glaring over at where the bulky form of Karofsky is visible pushing his way through the trees.

“Me too,” admits Blaine, and Karofsky’s scent stands out in his mind amid the cacophony of woodland smells. It makes his hackles rise.

Finn shrugs. “Anyways, dude, you’re pretty cool. Just wanted to let you know.” He claps Blaine on the shoulder, then jogs forward to rejoin Rachel. The brunette had been looking back anxiously over her shoulder during the entire exchange, and Blaine suspects she had been a motivating factor in Finn’s sudden decision to communicate via words for once. Finn is nice enough, but not the most on top of things sometimes.

When the pack reaches a suitable clearing, and with the moon only minutes away from showing its face, they all begin undressing as if on cue. The sight of his brothers’ and sisters’ nakedness is practically clinical, and they all rush to slip the garments into plastic bags. Mike Chang, as the most agile all of them, gathers the bags and hangs them from the branch of a high tree before scurrying down the trunk again. No point in ruining a set of clothes every month, after all.

And now they are a rough circle of beige smears against the green and brown woods, standing with their arms crossed or hanging by their sides as they all wait for the inevitable. Blaine can _feel_ the wolf pushing against his skin, straining to be released – to howl, and run, and be free. His head is beginning to pound with the closeness of the moon, and every hair on his body is standing on end. Hands and feet already beginning to ache, Blaine closes his eyes and feels himself tilting on the edge of the change.

It is a surprise when he feels a small, feminine hand slip inside his own and give it a reassuring squeeze. He opens his eyes, turns – and sees Brittany, smiling at him reassuringly, blonde hair hanging loose over her naked shoulders. Blaine begins to smile back before –

 **Pain.** Agony agony agony, stretching breaking folding straining – oh God, oh God, and the once gently-squeezing hand is tearing at the bones and muscles of his hand. He can barely feel it, though, because his insides are burning, bursting – organs stretching and reforming, ceasing to function, and he can actually _feel_  his heart stop beating before it begins to twist and pull and take a new shape. His blood is boiling beneath his melting skin.

A noise, pulsating in the woods, like some sick parody of a choir, is all around him – a chorus of shrieks and wailing cries, and Blaine can’t even scream because his vocal chords are stretching, broken, snapping. He isn’t standing anymore, legs unable to remain standing through the pain even if they weren’t broken and twisting in a hundred different places, and he is distantly aware through the _painpainpain oh, please **pain** _ that he is now on the ground with his head buried in his hands. He opens his mouth to sob but no sound comes out.

His claws dig into the ground as his heart begins to beat again, faster than before. The pain is still hard and sharp, but now at least comprehensible. He buries his muzzle into the ground to ride out the last few waves.  Coarse black hair is bursting up from beneath his skin. He lets out a long, low growl as his vocal chords finally reattach themselves and begin to work once more.

The bones snap into place and begin to heal. The twisting skin finally settles into place.

And Blaine Anderson is gone. Shoved beneath the surface, submerged for the night. Instead, there is the Wolf. Black and compact, a twisted entity of sharp teeth and taut muscles ready to spring.

The Wolf blinks as the pain finally ends, seeing through newly-canine eyes. Ears twitch. It begins to push itself up until it is standing on all fours, leaves crunching beneath strong paws. The smell of the Wolf’s brothers and sisters is musky and warm and comforting; they are all around, standing and shaking.

One of them, a rugged brown wolf that is the largest of the group – _leader, alpha, friend_ – sits back on its haunches and tilts its head back toward the sky, toward the moon ( _beautiful moon, shiny moon_ ) and letting out a long, drawn out howl. Howling for the pain, for the night sky. For what has been unleashed and what has been restrained.

Once by one they all do the same, sitting back and howling at the sky. The jagged croon of their communal cry shatters the silence of the night.

And that is when the _smell_ hits. Sharp and defined amidst the murky musk of the woods, that stands above everything else. It makes the Wolf keen and paw the ground, slobbering with want and need and **hunger**. The Wolf throws its head up, snuffling desperately at the air to catch more of the scent.

 _So good, delicious. Want it, want to take him have him rip him bite him. Crunch the bones and claw him open, make him red and bright and roll in his blood._

The smell is old, and distant. Hasn’t been here in hours.

 _Can track him. Find him, bite him, tear him open, make him mine._

Determination and frantic need pumping through its blood, the Wolf bolts. It runs through the trees, drool flying off as it reaches inhuman speed. Branches smack across its muzzle, its body, but the Wolf barely feels the impact. Its paws pound on the ground, a hammering rhythm of need.

 _Have to find him. Have to break him, crunch his neck and watch blue eyes go out and –_

The Wolf _yowls_ as something enormous and solid slams into it, sending the it flying to the ground. It struggles and lashes out, snarling and biting at the immovable force pinning it there – before realizing that it is the rugged brown alpha. The Wolf whimpers, still fighting weakly against the restraint, but its desperation is leaking out.

The alpha growls, claws digging into the Wolf’s back. It _hurts_ , but the Wolf can’t get away – alpha is bigger, and stronger, and knows what is best. Obedience is already replacing the need to kill pounding in the its blood.

 _Alpha. Leader. Have to obey. Knows what to do. Have to obey._

Slowly, carefully, the alpha moves away. That _smell_ still claws at the back of the wolf’s mind, but the need to obey the alpha is more important, more immediate. It doesn’t stand right away, instead remaining curled up on the forest floor. Whimpering and waiting for some sign of permission. It comes when the alpha nips at the back of its neck, barking playfully.

Rising to all fours, the wolf sees its brothers and sisters gathered all around once more. Their bodies are a many-coloured cluster of brown, black, grey, and white. Their eyes all shine out, yellow and ready to run and play and fight beneath the moon.

A burly grey wolf gambles up and yips playfully at their shaken comrade, and all at once the Wolf is among the pack again. Playing and scrapping beneath the light of the moon, their howls breaking the still night. Eventually one of them catches the scent of deer and they are off, charging as one through the trees.

They throw themselves into each other and try to forget that desperate need thrumming inside. Try to forget the satisfaction that can only come with human blood, with clawing beneath soft skin and feeling the crunch of bone between teeth.

It works.

But only barely.

 

\--

 

 When Blaine wakes, he is himself again.

Lying naked in a crumpled heap on the forest floor, bits of twig and stone digging into his tender skin, it feels as though something very important has been taken away from him. The wolf is still there inside of him, now curled up and content from its night of freedom in the dark. But the uncontrollability that comes with the full moon – the boundless energy, the unhindered pursuit of urges, the animalistic freedom to roam – is gone. Blaine knows it will be back in a month’s time, but being back to his usual self so suddenly always leaves him feeling jarred and empty.

The very early morning sun is just beginning to peek through the trees. All around him, Blaine can hear the quiet groans and hisses of discomfort as his packmates begin to wake and try to stand. He shifts, and the movement makes him groan: his whole body _aches_. Ignoring the pounding in his head as well as the sensation that every part of his body has been torn apart and sewn back together, Blaine struggles to pull himself onto trembling legs.

“Come on, Shortstuff. Up you get.”

The words come from right above him. Looking up, Blaine sees Santana standing next to him with a hand outstretched. She looks very much worse for wear, brown eyes heavily bagged and bloodshot. There are tiny scratches and cuts all over her naked body from the forest floor, and several large smears of blood from wounds that no longer exist. Her long hair is heavily matted with earth, leaves, and blood. Despite the cocky voice, her outstretched hand is visibly shaking.

She looks almost exactly how he feels.

Blaine takes her hand, lets Santana pull him to his feet with far less ease than usual. It hurts to stand, but Santana’s grip is firm and helps him weather out the worst of the pain. Despite her sharp words and apathetic attitude, sometimes Blaine suspects that the feisty Latina cares far more about the pack than she ever lets on.  He notices that she is looking at something behind him, and he turns to follow her gaze to where Artie is helping Brittany to her feet. The blonde is smiling brightly in spite of her own discomfort.

“All right, guys,” says Puck, one of his arms wrapped around a weak-looking Quinn.  Her swollen belly looks enormous compared to the rest of her body, which has determinedly remained stick-thin through her pregnancy.  “Our stuff’s only a five minute walk from here. Let’s move out, and we’ll be home within the hour.”

Their slow pace means that it takes closer to ten minutes to reach the clearing they had transformed in the night before. Every part of Blaine’s boy hurts, and exhaustion makes his eyelids heavy and his steps sluggish. It is tempting – so very, very tempting – to stop walking and lie back down on the ground again. Just for a minute. Just to rest his eyes. The knowledge that Puck will not let him sleep here – will shake him and yell at him to put one foot in front of the other, damn it – stops him.

When they reach the clearing, Mike climbs up once more to recover their clothes. He is much slower this time around, and Tina watches nervously as he drags himself up the tree at one-third of last night’s pace. Rachel has fallen asleep, and Finn has her tiny body scooped up into his arms. It must hurt to hold her there – his arms must be screaming at him to put her down – but the large boy makes no outward show of discomfort.

Once they are finally clothed, they drag themselves as a group back to the house. The slide of fabric feels strange and wrong against Blaine’s skin. The only thing he can think of is how _good_ it will feel to collapse into bed, to go to sleep after such a very long night. The fantasy of burrowing himself into the blankets and shutting his eyes is the only thing that keeps him moving.

When the pack finally makes it back to the motel, they wordlessly split up to return to their own rooms. The sun is just barely higher than it was when Blaine woke up, so it must have only been a half hour’s walk – but it feels as though they have been marching through the woods for hours. Blaine’s thighs scream at him as he ascends the stairs to the third floor, and he can barely keep his eyes open to see which room is his own. Body and mind alike feel completely wrecked.

When Blaine falls into bed a few moments later, he is asleep before his head touches the pillow. He lies there, sprawled on top of the blankets.

And dreams.

 

 _Blaine is inside the kitchen in his family’s old house – the one they lived in before his father’s business took off and a three-bedroom in the suburbs was no longer appropriate for persons of their influence. The curtains are the same ugly blue-and-white plaid, the floor the same brown linoleum. Blaine hasn’t thought about this kitchen in years, can barely believe he still remembers what it looked like._

 _( After they moved, the new kitchen had tile floors. They were cold and hard, and when his five-year-old self would have a tumble onto them, it would hurt and he would cry but the house was too big for his parents to hear him.)_

 _Everything seems larger than it logically should, and Blaine realizes that he is very small. Looks down at his hands and see the fat, soft hands of a toddler. He is sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, chubby legs dangling off the side. It’s an unsafe place for a child his age, but it doesn’t seem to matter right now._

 _His mother is there, stirring the contents of a large bowl with a wooden spoon. Her hair is lacquered straight, like it always was. The wild frizziness tamed down with bottles of glossy straightening fluid. She is smiling as she stirs the bowl, her soft brown eyes sparkling with love and affection as she looks at her son._

 _(The wedding band on her finger is low-key and inexpensive, nothing like the diamond-encrusted replacement Blaine’s father would buy for her a few years later.)_

 _Blaine’s mother smiles at him and he giggles. She walks toward him, and the smell of the contents of the bowl fills his noise. They’re making chocolate chip cookies. He shrieks in excitement, waving his fat little hands in the air._

 _(They never cooked together after they moved into the new house. There were people for that.)_

 _She picks up a small spoon from the counter, scoops up a bit of cookie dough, and hands it to him. He licks it happily off the spoon as his mother runs a hand through his curly hair._

 _“So beautiful, my darling boy,” Marita Anderson whispers in her native Filipino. He gurgles happily around the spoon, and the smell of cookie dough and her old drug-store perfume mingle in the air._

 **  
_\-- the smell of perfume clogging the Wolf’s nose, cloying and taunting and sickly sweet as it claws at the door. The woman is shrieking, sobbing, in a language it doesn’t understand as it snarls and throws its body against the door –_   
**

**  
  
**

_Blaine realizes that he is older now, bigger. He can feel that his own hair is slicked back into a style so close to being straight and neat, but unable to conceal a hint of curl. He looks down and sees that he is wearing a distinctive green-and-black school uniform, which means he must be somewhere between fifteen and sixteen years old. He only attended that particular academy for a few years before having to be pulled out and transferred for extenuating circumstances._

 _He looks up, and sees his father sitting in front of him in a large wing-back chair. It dwarfs him; William Anderson had always been a small man, but his size belied a commanding presence that age and money only strengthened. They are in the study of the new house, its walls lined with shelf after shelf of books no one ever opened and a roaring fire in the grate._

 _(No one ever bothered to light the study fire in real life. Too much work, too much bother, when you could just turn up the electric heat they’d paid so much to have built into every room. But it feels thematically appropriate for it to be lit.)_

 _His father’s mouth is moving, but there is no sound coming out. There is a bit of greying hair at his temple. He doesn’t seem to notice that his words aren’t being spoken._

 _And then, William’s deep voice fills the air – separate from the movement of his lips, like a poorly-dubbed foreign film. Unsynchronized and jarring._

 _“ ... need for discretion...should be more careful... or are you_ trying _to embarrass me?... don’t need to flaunt this little character flaw for the world to see, Blaine...”_

 _With a shock, Blaine recognizes this particular speech. They are from after the Sadie Hawkins dance, when he’d been sent home from the hospital after being attacked for daring to attend with another boy. His eye stings in pain, and Blaine reaches dazedly up to feel that it is clearly blackened. He touches his nose and that, sure enough, is broken. He looks down, and sees his left arm is in a cast._

 _(They’d screamed obscenities at both of them as they’d kicked and punched them into the concrete. Faggots. Cock-suckers. Fairies. Each word punctuated with another burst of pain as they’d curled up on the ground and tried to shield themselves from the blows.)_

 _“... have you transferred... can’t happen again, you understand... need to try harder to fit in...”_

 _Years later, Blaine will realize that his father is only saying these things because he loves him. Because the idea of his son growing up in a world of people who hate him and want to hurt him is so terrifying that it makes his father cold and hard and denying._

 _But right now, the words hit him just as powerfully as they did so many years ago. His lip trembles, and he wants nothing more than to bury his face in his hands and cry. To run out the door, away from his father – all straight-backed and composed and_ disappointed _._

 **  
_\-- all composure gone, now, when the door finally splinters and gives way. The man is petrified, fear rolling off of him in thick delicious waves, his face a rictus of incomprehensible terror. The Wolf snarls. The man moves in front of the sobbing woman anyways. He stands, back hard and straight in some kind of strange rebellion. He looks right into the eyes of the Wolf before it launches itself up and –_   
**

**  
  
**

Blaine wakes with a start, gasping and shouting and already choking on the bile rising in his throat. He gags and throws himself out of the bed, ignoring the stiffness in his legs in the rush to get to the bathroom. He makes it just in time, clutching at either side of the porcelain bowl as he wretches into it. Chunks of half-digested raw deer mingle with bright yellow bile, and the taste of the meat as it comes up again makes him shudder and heave even harder.

Because no matter how hard he tries to forget, he can still remember the taste in his mouth when he woke up after his first full moon. His whole body wracked with pain as he blinked his eyes open and found himself covered from head to toe in his parents’ gore, their blood clotting and crusting on his skin. Pieces of their bodies strewn all over the living room floor.

He cannot forget how he stared at the scene – like something out of a slasher horror only real, too real, so _real_ – and began to laugh. Bubbling up from within his twisted and wrecked body, building from tiny gasps into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. How he laughed with tears running down his face and his head buried in his hands and all the while telling himself to _wake up, just wake up, it will all be okay if I wake up_ – 

The neighbours had found him like that. Laughing and sobbing, naked body soaked in blood and meat and bone. Clawing at his own face and arms and chest, stammering nonsense and wailing into the morning stillness.

Something in his mind had snapped that night, and it hadn’t fully mended until he met Kurt all those years later.

 Blaine spits one last time into the foaming yellow-red-clear mess, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He closes the lid and flushes with trembling hands, standing up unsteadily as the water rushes in and takes away the evidence of his terrible, terrible guilt. He rinses his mouth with water, and then brushes his teeth. Once, twice, three times. Until the taste is gone and all that remains is the soreness of his throat.

This happens after every full moon, after all. Blaine is used to it by now.

The standard-issue clock on his bedside table flashes 8:37am as he strips off last night’s clothes and pulls on an old pair of pyjama pants he’d folded and left on a chair last night for this purpose. Blaine crawls back into bed, this time actually taking the time to wrap the blankets around his body.

And then he closes his eyes and thinks about Kurt.

Kurt, whose nose wrinkles when he gets upset. Who is finicky about hygiene, and leaves cupboard doors open when he shouldn’t, and sometimes looks at his brother with such undiluted affection that it makes Blaine’s heart ache.

Kurt, who is so beautiful it makes Blaine wonder how he can possibly be real. Who makes Blaine better than he is; who can tell when he needs to be held back or left to run free, and has taught him that it’s okay to let go as long as Kurt is there to catch him. Who smells so good it makes Blaine’s mouth water. Whose chiming laugh always makes Blaine smile.

Blaine knows he doesn’t deserve to have Kurt’s love, but he clings to it desperately anyways. Blaine loves Kurt; the wolf wants to hurt him. But once the ritual is complete, the wolf will know its mate. Will want to keep Kurt safe instead of claw, bite, and tear.

Because if that happened again to someone he loved...

Blaine knows he isn’t strong enough to survive it.  

The realization that last night was the very last time that the wolf will be sent into a frenzy at the smell of his own boyfriend – that by next month, he and Kurt will be safely mated – makes Blaine’s whole body relax and his mind begin to fog. Makes the thoughts of gore and blood and terrible, terrible guilt fade.

He falls asleep envisioning himself as the wolf, wrapped protectively around Kurt’s pale naked body. Keeping them both safe, and happy, and warm.

 

 --

 

By the time Blaine drifts awake again the afternoon sun is tickling his eyelids. Looking to one side, he blinks his eyes open to see that the clock is now flashing 12:32pm. He can hear the motel’s occupants slowly waking up across all three floors, stretching out their tired limbs or burying their faces determinedly back into the covers. Blaine lies on his back, tangled up in the slightly rough motel sheets, and rubbing his eyes until his vision is clear.

 _Kurt and I are going to mate in one month,_ he thinks. Instead of the anxiety this sentence would have brought him yesterday, the notion fills him with excitement. With absolute certainty.

He feels... lighter. As though some sort of weight as been lifted from him. Because he knows that this is the right choice, now. And all they can do is prepare for it.

It is with that thought in mind that Blaine rolls out of bed, dresses, and makes his way down to Mike and Tina’s designated bedroom.

The current Cohen-Chang-Chang residence ( _and really_ , thinks Blaine as he pads down the hallway, _how do they even come up with these couple nicknames?_ ) is currently located in Room 211 of the Woods’ Edge Motel. As one of the only two mated couples in the pack, Tina and Mike have chosen to room together instead of separately in every place the pack has stayed since Blaine has been a member. When he reaches their door, he takes a moment to listen for movement. When he is satisfied that they are awake (and not currently having sex, although that would be brutally masochistic on both their behalves at this point), he knocks on the door.

There is a pause, followed by Tina’s voice as she shouts ‘coming!’ and the sound of footsteps. She opens the door a few moments later, looking weak but happy in a long blue dressing gown.

“Morning,” she says, leaning against the doorframe and smiling. Blaine can hear a television playing softly in the room behind her. “Or afternoon, I guess. What’s up?”

“Good morning,” says Blaine politely, feeling slightly discomfited. He likes Tina and Mike, but they tend to keep to themselves. Having to move outside his comfort zone toward his fellow pack members is making him realize how little he knows about them outside the full moon. “I have a... sort of historical question that I think I need your help with. Is now a bad time?”

“Not at all!” Her enthusiastic increase in volume makes them both wince, and she backtracks. “Well, maybe a little bit. Come inside and tell me about it, and we’ll really get down to work when we’re both feeling better?” Blaine nods gratefully, and Tina moves out of the doorway to allow him inside.

Like Puck and Quinn, Tina and Mike share one of the motel’s larger ‘honeymoon suites’ instead of the small single bedrooms the rest of them tend to occupy. Despite the slightly skeevy name, the room is in no way different except for the slightly larger dimensions and the addition of a small living room-style area. Mike is sitting on the rosy pink couch with his legs up on the coffee table. He is wearing a pair of boxer shorts with a blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders, looking for all the world like a Cirque Du Solei performer on downtime. His extremely thin and well-defined body is emphasized by how very little of it is covered.

Mike smiles at him, waves, then turns back to watching some sort of cooking show on low volume. Tina leads Blaine over to the quasi-study area, where a small breakfast nook has been surrounded by several boxes of books.

In Blaine’s experience, most werewolves are predominantly concerned with the here and now. Practical questions such as ‘how do I avoid getting caught by hunters?’ or ‘where am I going to go to transform tonight?’ tend to occupy the forefront of most wolves’ minds. Even with the Warville pack, residents had been encouraged to put their time and energy into practical activities instead of dwelling on the past. Painting and singing were popular pass-times, as were more modern creations such as television or the internet.

By contrast, Tina is infamously obsessed with werewolf lore and history. Whereas most of them find looking to their species’ past a rather depressing venture, Tina’s fascination with such dark and twisted stories and accounts has earned her a special place as the pack’s pseudo-historian. For years far longer than her youthful appearance would indicate possible, she has collected dusty first editions and hunted for their accompanying translations. Her collection is impressive by now, filling up several boxes with physical books as well as many other snippets of information on her computer hard drive.

The ongoing joke is that it is a rite of passage for Tina Cohen-Chang to corner new pack members, usher them into dark corners, and proceed to grill them about every notable story, legend, or first-hand tale they can think of. All the while frantically writing in a little black booklet, nodding every so often and asking for dates and locations.

Tina gestures for him to have a seat, so Blaine pulls up one of the two chairs and lowers himself into it. He can still hear the host of the program Mike is watching in the other room, directing the viewer to _be careful when blanching the beans for fear of creating a soggy end product_. The small girl moves to the other chair, and sits down.

There is an uncomfortable pause, and it takes a few moments of Tina staring expectantly at Blaine for him to realize that she is waiting for him to ask his question.

“I don’t want to bother you,” he begins tentatively, dragging the words out in order to give himself the time necessary to figure out how to phrase this. “But something has come up, and... and I think that Kurt and I need your help with something.” Tina raises a dark eyebrow. “Kurt and I are mating next month,” Blaine continues boldly, “and I want to know what to expect.”

There is a beat.

The squeal of utter delight that Tina unleashes at this revelation would be enough to make a normal human being wince at the best of times. As it is, he and Mike recoil at the sound, hands flying up to their ears. Tina looks miraculously unaffected.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my _god_!” Tina shrieks excitedly, eyes wide and hands flying excitedly into the air. Her face is bright with shocked enthusiasm. “Oh my _god_ , Blaine, that is the _best_ thing I’ve heard in absolute ages! You two are perfect for each other, and Kurt’s been coming here for so long to be with Finn, and now he can finally properly belong, and _Blaine_. The _sex_.” Her eyes roll slightly back into her hair as she says this last part. “Just... it’s indescribable. First you get super-intense-mating-sex, and then after that you get rawr-you-belong-to-me-sex, and –!”

“Tina!” exclaims Mike, horrified, and Blaine cannot help but grin.

“Oh, the whole pack can hear us when we go at it, and you know it,” she says, waving her hand dismissively at her mate’s objection to her casual discussion of their sex life. “It’s not like he doesn’t already know that it’s mind-blowing. But now he gets to _experience_ it.”

“Still,” insists Mike, cheeks bright red, but he is grinning as well. He switches off the television and comes over to join them, clapping a hand on Blaine’s shoulder in a way that reminds him distinctly of Puck. He wonders if this is the inbuilt male werewolf expression of happiness at the news of an upcoming mating. “Congratulations, man. Mating’s pretty sweet, not gonna lie.”

“And it’s going to be with Kurt, too!” exclaims Tina, eyes sparkling and looking as though all of her dreams have come true at once. Distantly, Blaine wonders how his very-much-a-human boyfriend has managed to form a closer bond with half of the members of his pack than he has. Suddenly, a scandalized look crosses her face. “Oh my god, Blaine, does Puck know?”  There is a beat and Tina gasps, looking even more horrified. “Does _Finn_ know?”

Blaine cannot help himself; he lets out a loud, long laugh. Having members of his own pack – people he trusts with his life, with the most vulnerable part of himself – supportive of this massive decision makes him feel giddy in a way he hasn’t felt in days.

“Of course Puck knows!” chuckles Blaine, an enormous grin plastered across his face. “It was his idea to begin with. And Kurt’s coming back some time this afternoon, and he’s going to let Finn know then. It only seems right for Finn to find out from his brother, yeah?”  They nod, and Blaine forces his face into a more serious expression. “But seriously, guys. The reason I’m telling you this before even Finn knows is because of the whole...  human thing.”

A look of worried understanding washes over Tina’s face, but Mike still looks confused.

“What do you mean?” asks the slim boy, pulling the blanket more firmly around himself as an afterthought. None of them are particularly bothered by seeing each other’s nudity or exposing their own anymore, so the gesture is one of habit more than consideration.

“Kurt’s human,” says Tina, voice soft, reaching over to press a hand to Mike’s blanket-clad thigh. “Which means that the mating ritual is going to be... a little bit different than it was with us.”

Mike nods, looking solemn. Tina turns and focuses her words back toward Blaine.

“I know I have some records and accounts around here somewhere – I remember reading about the human/werewolf mating process before. But, Blaine... it’s really rare, historically speaking. Generally, if wolves have spouses before they turn...” She trails off, looking uncomfortable.

“They usually kill them during their first full moon, yeah. I know.”

“Or they can’t quite deal with that whole ‘evil creature of the night’ thing,” Tina continues quietly, looking gloomy.  

There is a long pause. Lost in thought, Blaine is startled when he feels a soft hand reach over and squeeze his own. Tina is smiling gently at him over the table.

“I’ll look into it for you, okay? There are definitely some records in this mess –” She  gestures at the messy boxes of books. “— and I’m betting there’s some info hidden online, as well.”

“I can help,” pipes up Mike, looking determined to recapture the cheerful mood of a few minutes ago. “I’m a champion note-taker.”

“We’ll find out exactly how the process is different for you two than it would be for a pair of wolves, and we’ll find the safest way for this to happen.” Tina smiles and gives his hand another squeeze. “This is a happy thing, okay?”

Blaine blinks hard, and a real smile crosses his face. “Thanks, guys,” he says, and really means it. “Your help means so much to me. To Kurt, too.”

At that, Tina perks up noticeably. “When’s Kurt coming back? I need to give him a hug and tell him congratulations in person!”

There is no telling how the other members of the pack will react to the news. Perhaps with coldness, or resentment, or confusion. But the knowledge that these two at least will support their decision leaves Blaine with a warm feeling of affection spreading through his chest.

“Soon,” says Blaine. Almost as soon as the word leaves Blaine’s mouth, the three of them tense. They can all feel that a car is driving down the ‘condemned’ road to the motel, perhaps half a minute away. None of them move for a long moment – before it comes close enough into range for all three of them to recognize the tell-tale low squeal of Kurt’s truck.

“Speak of the devil!” laughs Tina. “Are you going to go meet him?”

“I’ll give him a little while to talk to Finn, I think.”  _And to deal with the fallout, if there is any._

“Want to watch the rest of this episode while you wait?” asks Mike, looking enthusiastic again. “Jamie’s making green beans and chicken, Indian-style.”

“You don’t even cook!” huffs an exasperated Tina, giving her mate a playful slap on the shoulder. “Believe me, Blaine, I’ve tried to make him. Complete lost cause. Every time it’s his turn to help with dinner, he desperately tries to trade chores with me. It’s _pathetic_.”

Mike huffs, indignant. They all laugh and pile onto the ugly motel couch, sitting slightly too close to each other to watch the last few minutes of the episode. When it ends, they start another. Mike slings an arm around Tina’s chest, and she sprawls so that her feet are resting on Blaine’s lap. It’s comfortable and fun, and makes Blaine grin as they watch Jamie Oliver chop vegetables and gesture at the camera. 

It feels like family, he realizes.

And that... that fills him with too many emotions to fully understand. The same grief and anger that petrified his life for three years; the self-hatred, the guilt. But there is also hope. Hope that a new family can be made for him here with these people he might never have met in another life. And happiness that he has found a home here.

Blaine releases a long, deep breath – and settles back against the couch to watch.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck, Kurt,” exhales Blaine, reaching a hand up to briefly card through Kurt’s hair – as though he cannot help himself. As though he simply must reach out and touch. “You’re so gorgeous. So beautiful.”

The day after the full moon, Kurt pulls up to the Woods’ Edge Motel in his beaten-up blue pickup truck just as the afternoon . The bed of the truck is virtually packed with cloth bags, each one teeming with groceries. Blaine had mentioned that the house was getting precariously low, and Kurt knows from long experience that not a single pack member will be up for dealing with either the journey or the experience of going into town today.

Puck will pay him back, most likely with an enormous and mysteriously-retrieved stack of bills. Kurt doesn’t know all the details about where the pack gets its funds, but the pack leader always seems to have a couple dozen hundred-dollar bills hidden around their current residence.

It’s a good thing, too. A dozen-plus unusually ravenous people are expensive to feed.

Kurt slides out of the cab of the truck, not bothering to lock it behind him. Spending the previous night in the nearest town’s somewhat sleazy motel has made him overcompensate, and his sunglasses and sharp leather jacket have been selected to create the illusion of complete composure. He heads over to begin unloading the groceries.

“Can somebody give me a hand?” he calls out, trusting the pack members’ heightened hearing. Sure enough, he only has enough time to open the back hatch before he sees his brother come out the front entrance and begin to head toward him, a slight limp in his step.

Finn looks slightly worse for wear, but that is to be expected. His hair is streaked with patches of grey that Kurt knows have faded in a few hours, and he is moving tentatively – as though every muscle in his body aches. Finn’s eyes are their usual brown, however, and he looks happy to see him. The image of an excited but somewhat sore puppy comes to Kurt’s mind unbidden, and he shakes away the somewhat insulting thought.

It’s nice, though, to know he doesn’t have to be on edge with these people for another three weeks. As much as Kurt is used to dealing with werewolves right before the full moon, it is usually more pleasant to deal with sore youth who eat too much. Almost always.

“Hey, dude!” calls Finn, sounding as though he truly wants to be excited but just can’t quite muster the enthusiasm. Kurt isn’t offended. He has dealt with Finn on enough mornings-after to know exactly how drained and tender the larger boy is.

“Hi,” says Kurt, before letting out an undignified yelp as his brother grabs him around the waist and into a crushing hug that leaves his feet dangling at least a foot off the ground. “ _Ack_! Yes, yes, hello to you too. This can’t be comfortable for you, Finn, you must be sore. Put me down. Put me down now.”

“Sorry I forgot to tell you that the hunt got cancelled, man,” mumbles Finn into his chest, not budging in the slightest. “That was, like, really not cool of me. I got you into trouble.”

“Yes, well. I forgive you.” When his brother still doesn’t make any move toward putting Kurt back on solid ground, he sighs and actually hugs him back. He probably feels like he weights about two pounds to Finn anyways, even in his brother’s current condition. “It really is okay. Blaine and I have worked out a solution that we think might solve the issue – and a lot of other things, actually. I kinda wanted to talk to you about it. However, I’d rather discuss it with both my feet on the ground, if that’s all right.”

“Yeah, okay.” Finn finally lowers him back down, and the feel of the dirt driveway is very pleasant indeed. Finn is looking down at Kurt expectantly, so he gestures toward the massive truck bed full of groceries.

“Can we maybe get these into the kitchen and talk about it while we put these away? There’s milk and stuff in there.” He is stalling, but Finn accepts his explanation readily. Kurt manages two bags, and still manages to feel somewhat overpowered by their weight.

 _Stupid werewolf strength_ , he thinks, as Finn grabs four bags per hand and easily carries them into the kitchen.

Once they arrive, Kurt immediately busies himself with checking to see how dire the food situation actually is. At the realization that the entire pack was essentially down to condiments and crackers, his decision to go surprise shopping feels even more validated.

“How was last night?” Kurt asks, beginning to sort through the two entire bags of exclusively meat products. He inquires because he is interested and not at all because he is stalling. He gestures down at the foot Finn is favouring. “Did you get hurt?”

“What?” asks Finn, before realizing. “Oh, yeah, a little bit. Play-fighting with Puck. It wasn’t serious or anything, and I know that it doesn’t _actually_ hurt that bad anymore. But... it kinda feels like it _should_. If that makes sense.”

It does: phantom pain is a fairly common occurrence on the day after. Although the transformation may heal any physical wounds and restore the werewolf to the pinnacle of good health, the instantaneous shift from ‘injured’ to ‘completely fine’ does not necessarily give the brain enough time to process the change. Finn will be walking normally by tonight, once his mind has realized that he is no longer hurt.

“But it was pretty good, I think. We hunted a few deer, which was fun. And tasty. The weather was nice, too. Sam chased some squirrels.”

As he sorts the meat into piles by animal – pig, cow, lamb, chicken, turkey – Kurt can’t help but smile at this rather simplistic recollection. Even when it was just the two of them on the road together, Finn had always been awful at describing full moons. One particularly memorable time, Kurt had spent the entire night perched in a massive oak tree with a rifle pointed at the door of the reinforced shed in which Finn was locked. The wolf had howled all night, clawing hysterically at anything within reach: the shed door, the walls, its own flesh. Kurt’s hands shook on the gun the whole time, and he was certain that the wolf’s screams had driven him half-mad by morning.

The next day, Finn’s description of the evening was: _That sucked a bit. Could smell you, but couldn’t get to you, which was annoying. I found a rat and tried to eat it, but it got away._

“So what’s the thing you wanted to talk to me about?” asks Finn after a pause, picking up a box of oatmeal. He then seems to realize he has no idea where to put it, and replaces it down on the counter.

Kurt stiffens, mid-way through loading the meat into one of the three fridges. (He would freeze it, but realistically it’s going to be eaten before that ever becomes necessary.) This is the moment he has been dreading. Before Kurt had left the motel yesterday, he and Blaine had come to an agreement regarding who would be informing whom about their decision. Blaine had agreed to tell Puck before the transformation; Kurt had approved as long as he was the one to tell Finn.

But now that he actually has to say the words, he finds himself mysteriously fascinated by finding the best possible stacking situation for the meat in the fridge.

“Yeah. Well.” Kurt rearranges the stacks of packaged chicken one last time before closing the fridge door and turning to face his brother. “Puck... kind of issued an ultimatum two days ago, after the whole Karofsky thing. I don’t think that was the only reason why!” he rushes to clarify at Finn’s horrified expression. “It was probably just the last straw. But in any case: it boils down to the fact that if I’m going to be allowed to come here anymore, some things needed to change. So Blaine and I are going to mate.” He says the last sentence all in a rush, as though saying the words quickly will make them more acceptable.

Finn... blinks. He stares at Kurt, a look of utter astonishment on his face.

“Mate. You and Blaine.” The words are dull, empty. As though the meaning of the word hasn’t totally sunken in quite yet.

“Yes,” says Kurt, and for lack of anything to do with his hands he turns and begins to take vegetables out of the grocery bags.

“Can you guys even _do_ that?” asks Finn, and Kurt feels his mouth fall open. He abandons the vegetables and turns back to face Finn, so offended he has no idea what to say. There is a beat, and then Finn flushes bright red. “Because you’re human!” he hastens to add. “Not because you’re both dudes! I know that part doesn’t matter. Because why would it? I mean – why would it, right?”

Slightly pacified, Kurt lets out an unsteady breath and crosses his arms. He feels defensive, but tries his best to hide it. “Yes, we can. It’s... it’s pretty rare, though. Doesn’t happen too often. And apparently the... process... is going to be bit different than it is for two wolves.” Kurt can feel his own cheeks reddening, now. “But... yes. We can. And... and one day if I decide to turn, it’ll make that a whole lot easier as well.”

Finn scrunches up his face in an expression of dislike. “Don’t say things like that,” he says, and Kurt knows he is referring to the idea of his younger brother one day being turned.

Resisting the urge to respond to the comment – because _that_ is a completely different battle, and one he doesn’t feel up to fighting at the right now – Kurt continues. “The ritual has to take place on the night before a full moon, so we’re going to have to wait a month. But that should give us plenty of time to –”

“Wait, a _month_?” Finn’s voice is suddenly louder, and he takes a step forward. He really is unfairly tall; the closer proximity makes Kurt painfully aware of just how much his brother towers over him. “So, what, you’ve just suddenly made this decision and you’re not even going to take some time to consider it?” Finn lets out a wordless noise of frustration, hands clenching at his sides. “It’s so _unfair_ of Puck to expect you to do this. It was my fault that you showed up two days ago, not yours.”

Partial understanding floods Kurt’s mind, and some of his frustration ebbs away. He puts a hand on Finn’s well-defined arm, his hand looking even tinier than usual in contrast. “Finn, this isn’t your fault. Honestly, I think Puck’s been unhappy with me visiting like this for a while now. And what he says, goes. You know that even better than I do.” Kurt gives his brother’s arm a squeeze. The muscles are inhumanly solid under his fingers. “I don’t want to cut myself out of your life, Finn. And I don’t want to stop being a part of Blaine’s life, either.”

“... it’s just so _permanent_ ,” Finn mutters, staring determinedly down at the ugly black-and-white checked floor. The groceries lie forgotten at their feet. “Just... mating is forever, you know? And we’re both still really young, even with all of this weirdness. I mean, I can’t even imagine making that kind of commitment to Rachel yet, yeah?”

 _I can’t imagine you making a commitment to still be with Rachel by next Tuesday._ The thought is rather extraordinarily mean, and Kurt is silently pleased with himself for having a stronger brain-to-mouth filter than he did in high school. Because taunting his brother’s tumultuous relationship is probably not the best way to go about winning Finn’s support.

“I know,” Kurt says instead. “But I’ve had to grow up quickly, Finn. You and I both did. And Blaine _is_ a little bit older than he looks.” Finn looks unconvinced, and Kurt decides that sometimes the truth is the best tool to be had. “Finn, I really want this. It makes so much sense for so many reasons. I’ll be safer this way, both when I’m here with the pack and in general. And... and I really love him. So much that I can’t believe it sometimes. I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

His brother is silent for an extraordinarily long time. He is not looking at Kurt; instead, his gaze is focused on a fixed point in the room. Looking at something that Kurt cannot see. When he finally speaks, his words are low and careful.

“It scares me. You making a decision that you can’t come back from.”

There is such honesty in this simple statement that Kurt’s heart clenches and his eyes sting. Because Finn never got to choose. Never got to regret or defend his decision to leave everything behind – his family, his education, his _life_ – because that decision was never his to make. Finn’s life ended walking home from practice that day. He’d just been a stupid, selfish kid when everything had been taken from him. So much of Finn’s life in the past three years has been completely out of his control, and he doesn’t want his little brother to be put in the same position.

And it _kills_ Finn – absolutely _kills_ him – that he can’t see his own mother or step-father anymore. Because the wolf has tasted their blood; has ripped into their flesh with cruel teeth and come so close to cracking their bones, to tearing them apart and feasting on the remains.

Finn the Human Being loves his parents, would never want to hurt them – but Burt still walks with a limp and Carole is missing three fingers. The wolf, always thrumming just below the surface, wants nothing more than to finish what it started. To sate itself with their blood until there is no more left to have. The terrible dichotomy practically tears Finn’s mind apart, makes him practically vomit with disgust every time he thinks about them. His love for his parents mixed with the desperate need to hurt, to kill.

The two of them had tried to orchestrate a meeting once. It had ended with four tranquilizer darts to Finn’s back.

Burt and Carole never found out.

“Finn... I love you more than anything. I do.” Kurt can’t quite keep the tremble out of his voice. “But this is mine and Blaine’s decision to make, and... and it would mean so much if you could support me through it. A lot of this stuff is a bit scary and strange to me. And I just... I really need my big brother right now.”

And suddenly Kurt is wrapped up in another Finn Hudson hug, only this time his feet remain firmly on solid ground. Somehow he doesn’t mind the embrace so much this time. His brother’s arms around him are almost uncomfortably tight; he isn’t paying as much attention to minding his own strength as he probably should. Kurt gives Finn a hard squeeze before they both pull away.

“Dude,” says Finn, some of his usual cheer re-emerging in his voice. “You kinda came with me when my whole world was ending. Of course I support you.” He gives Kurt a pat on the shoulder that almost sends him flying to the floor. There’s a pause. “It’s totally gonna be weird, though.”

The laugh escapes Kurt’s throat before he can hold it back, and before he knows it they are both choking on near-hysteria, giggling like little boys they can no longer be. There are tears of mirth gathering at the corner of Kurt’s eyes, and he thinks that Finn has never said anything more accurate in his life.

“It’s going to be totally weird, yes,” he wheezes. Finn smiles at him, and Kurt knows that the two of them are going to be fine. Then he looks down at the floor and wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, we fail at adulthood, though. There are groceries everywhere.”

Finn chuckles. “If you tell me where to put things, I’ll help you put them away.”

“How on earth do I know your own kitchen better than you do?”

“Dude. I know where the bacon and the pizza pops live. Anything else is just extra.”

Kurt laughs, and gives his brother a playful smack on the shoulder. Even though he knows that his hand probably has all of the impact of a fly colliding with a solid brick wall, Finn smiles and dutifully asks where the oatmeal should be shelved. And everything is normal between them again.

It takes only takes them twenty minutes to get the rest of the groceries stored. They both try to keep the conversation light as they tuck boxes and bags into cupboards and bags of produce into the crisper. The book that Rachel is writing. Carole’s promotion at work, and the fact that she begins her new position next Monday. The fact that Burt is renovating the fireplace at home.

Once the absurd amount of food has been safely stored and the cloth bags folded for Kurt to take with him when he leaves, Finn excuses himself to go make sure that Rachel is actually awake. (“For someone so uptight, she kinda sleeps forever on the day after. It’s weird.”) Kurt smiles and waves him away, already anxious to see Blaine. The curly-haired boy tends to emerge from full moons looking slightly more worse for wear than everyone else – probably something to do with his time at that weird Warville cult. He’ll be happy to have his human boyfriend around to play nursemaid, Kurt thinks. And it will be nice to spend a bit more time with him before he has to return home to Lima tomorrow.

As he exits the kitchen and starts down the hallway, Kurt is so caught up in the idea of fully taking advantage of the rest of the day with Blaine that he does not notice the large figure leaning against a shadowed corner until it actually calls out to him.

“Kurt.”

The white light of adrenaline bursts behind Kurt’s eyelids, and he is fairly certain he jumps about a foot in the air. Heart pounding, he looks around frantically for the source of the voice – and sees Dave Karofsky leaning against the wall, posture hunched and large arms crossed over his chest. He looks incredibly uncomfortable.

“ _Jesus_ , David,” Kurt exclaims, letting out large breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “Way to give a man seven heart attacks. Maybe a little less shadow-skulking next time?”

“Sorry,” mutters Dave, taking a step forward into the ugly fluorescent light. He’s looking determinedly down at the floor, and there is tremendous tension across his large frame. Dave bites his lip, and Kurt realizes that he is... nervous. The irony of the enormous inhuman werewolf being intimidated by a fragile human half his size is not lost on Kurt, but Dave looks serious.

“Hey... what’s up?”

“I’m just –” Dave cuts off, holding himself so stiff it almost hurts to look at him. He lets out a small, frustrated noise – and Kurt realizes that his eyes are _shining_ slightly. Dave coughs. “I wanted to tell you that I’m... I’m so fucking sorry, Kurt. For what I said to you. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean _any_ of it.” The larger boy takes a deep, unsteady breath.

“I know,” murmurs Kurt, unsure of what else there is to say. “I know, David. It’s okay.”

Kurt had been half-expecting an apology, but this is far more... _intense_ than anticipated. It makes something twist uncomfortably in his stomach for reasons he can’t quite pin down.

“It’s not, though.” Dave’s voice grows bolder. “You already know I didn’t mean any of it. The moon... it was the moon that had me all messed up, you know? But it was still shitty for me to say that stuff, and to... push you.” The hesitation hints at another word left unspoken. “And... I heard you talking to Hudson.”

 _Fucking werewolves. Fucking werewolves and their stupid strength and hearing and epic nosiness of inhuman proportions._

Kurt squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten slowly in his head. When he opens his eyes again Dave is still towering in front of him, looking surer of himself than before.

“It’s very rude to eavesdrop, _David_.” Kurt is attempting to sound patient, but his voice edges into snippy territory instead. He straightens his posture, trying to compete with the enormously bulky boy standing in front of him. It doesn’t help, but it does make him feel slightly better.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t you _dare_ –”

“You don’t have to run crying to – to fucking _Anderson_ for protection just because I say a couple of things I don’t mean.” Dave sneers when he says Blaine’s name. His eyes are dark, flashing with anger and contempt. And something else. “It won’t happen again, okay? I’ll talk to Puck, I’ll figure something out, but – you don’t have to throw your whole life away just because I mess up _one time_.”

“Okay, first of all? I don’t see how _any_ of this is your business.” Kurt is bristling now, is diminutive frame practically vibrating with indignation. “Blaine is my boyfriend, and we can choose to do whatever we like. You’ve been nice to me since you arrived here, yes. But that does _not_ give you the right to belittle my life choices.”

The larger boy lets out a wordless cry of frustration. “It does if you’re pulling this shit because I said a few things I didn’t mean! God, Kurt, mating is _forever_. You don’t have to – to do that with _him_ just because you’re having a massive hissy fit over nothing.”

“Second of all,” enunciates Kurt carefully, voice hard and cold as ice. “Do you really think I’m that easily frightened? Because if you do, _David_ , then you know absolutely nothing about me.”

At his words, Dave blinks and flinches as though physically struck. But Kurt isn’t done.

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe I’m mating with Blaine because I _want_ to? Because I love him, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him? Or did you conveniently stop listening in for that little tidbit? Kurt laughs, and it is an ugly sound. “Did you ever take one step out of your self-involved little world to consider that maybe I’ve thought seriously about mating with him _before_ you went and ran your mouth at me?”

The silence that hands between them is vast and charged, and Kurt realizes that he is breathing heavily. Dave isn’t looking at him anymore; instead, his gaze is firmly fixed on the ground. Kurt waits for him to speak again, but only encounters more silence. Sniffing disdainfully, Kurt turns and begins to continue down the hallway.

And then –

“Why him?”

The words are muttered, almost incomprehensible. They make Kurt freeze mid-step nonetheless. He stops, turns. Looks at Dave Karofsky, practically filling up the entire hallway with his bulk. Dave Karofsky, who is staring at him as though Kurt is the most crucial piece of information in the world.

“What?” asks Kurt after a moment, his voice high in surprise.

Dave takes a step closer. His eyes are full of conviction, but something in his manner is incredibly fragile.

“If you met me before you met Anderson. If... if I got turned sooner, or if he never joined the pack...” Dave trails off, and his eyes flick down to Kurt’s lips and back again. The tiny movement of his eyes makes Kurt shiver in a way he can’t fully understand. “Why him.”

Distantly, Kurt can feel the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The similarities in how Blaine and Dave had acted when they had first met him, two years ago and one year ago respectively. Both pausing midway through conversation, eyes wild and breathing in too deeply. Almost shaking from the force of some emotion Kurt couldn’t entirely comprehend.

When Kurt had first met Blaine, Finn had been with the pack for four months. Kurt was only just back from a visit with Carole and Burt – one of the first since their sons had run away from them – and he was feeling emotionally devastated and exhausted from the long drive. Eager to get back to his brother; away from questions he couldn’t fully answer, stories he couldn’t fully tell. He had walked into the main hall of the pack’s current home and seen a small, compact boy dressed in an absolutely absurd uniform. He was shaking Puck’s hand a tad too enthusiastically. _You won’t regret this_ , he’d said, their hands bobbing up and down in the air. _I promise you won’t regret this. Thank you. Thank you so –_

And then the uniform-clad boy had frozen, taking a deep breath in through his nose. Had turned, and spotted Kurt in the doorway. Their eyes had met – they were pretty eyes; hazel and shining and ever-so-earnest – and Kurt had felt something delicate and sweet begin to blossom at the base of his spine.

When Dave joined the pack almost exactly a year later, Blaine had wrapped his arm around Kurt’s shoulders and held him closer than usual. At the time, Kurt hadn’t realized that anything was wrong; had smiled and snuggled into Blaine’s hold, happy for the obvious display of affection.

Kurt knows about werewolf sensory perception, about smells and how they can draw and connect the wolf to compatible people. How protective it makes the wolf, too. How ferocious and wary and on edge of potential threats. About how Blaine used to tell him how _maddening_ Kurt smelled on the day they first met. Tantalizing and tempting, enough to make Blaine shiver and twitch from the strain of holding back, terrified of ruining everything before it even started.

 _It’s like human pheromones and attraction,_ Blaine had said once, when Kurt had pushed him to explain. His ever-so-proper encyclopaedic side peeking out. _If someone smells good, they’re more attractive, yeah? Only... it’s more than that. It_ draws. _Says ‘this person is good for you’, and..._ Blaine had thrown his hands into the air, apparently unable to properly explain. _It’s not usually this intense, even for wolves; it varies from person to person. I have no idea why you smell the way you do to me, Kurt. Maybe it just means we’re perfect for each other?_ And Kurt had rolled his eyes and huffed at the soppy comment, and that was that.

Kurt knows, too, that scent attraction doesn’t limit itself because of petty little human labels like ‘dating’ or ‘taken’ or ‘in a relationship’. And it certainly doesn’t have to be reciprocated.

In that moment, it strikes Kurt how very, very unfair the entire situation is for all three of them.

“If this is all you want to talk about,” says Kurt at last, after the long pause. “Then I’m not sure I want to talk to you right now.”

And with that, he turns and walks down the hallway. Through the buzzing in his ears, Kurt thinks he might hear a choked-off inhalation of breath. He doesn’t look back.

  
\--

  
“Hey there, you.”

The gentle words make Kurt look up from the copy of _Vogue_ in his lap. Blaine is standing in front of him, looking sweet and adorable in a pair of ratty old pyjama pants and a too-big t-shirt. Blaine’s bed-rumpled curls are soaked in sunlight, and despite the obvious stiffness in his limbs there is a small smile on his face.

After the confrontation with Dave, Kurt had marched straight out to his truck, grabbed the magazine from the passenger seat door, and found a grassy patch in the sun to read. To hell with his nice pants. After living on the road with Finn for six months with as few as two changes of underwear at one juncture, he has never managed to care about maintaining his clothes in quite the same way again.

Regardless, the world of flawless beauty that exists only within the glossy pages of fashion magazines has very much remained a comfort. It is a world where the outlandish and strange is made to look reasonable. Where perfection can be achieved, even if only with the help of fancy computer editing software and expensive make-up artists.

“Hey,” Kurt replies quietly, smiling up at the unkempt but happy-looking boy in front of him.

“I figured I’d let you have a minute with your brother. Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” says Kurt, and it is really only when the word leaves Kurt’s mouth that he realizes it is completely true. He feels somewhat numb with the shock of the confrontation with Dave, but also... freer. Certain. As though walking away from Dave had been like severing a gangrenous limb; it was painful, but its poison could no longer hurt him now. As though rejecting the burly young man had ended a dangerous situation that he hadn’t been fully aware of in the first place.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Kurt continues softly, looking up into Blaine’s sunlit face. The lines of his face are soft and rounded and ever-so-handsome. Blaine’s chin and upper lip are dusted with a faint hint of scruff, and his thick eyebrows are pulled together in an expression of unmistakable affection. His lips look soft.

 _He’s so beautiful._

“Blaine, what was the first thing you noticed about me?”

The question leaves Kurt’s mouth before he can fully process it, and Blaine blinks. For a moment, he gets a faraway look in his eyes – before he takes a seat on the ground next to Kurt. They sit there in silence, side by side, before Blaine speaks.

“It was your smell,” says Blaine matter-of-factly. He lets out a small, sardonic laugh. “I’d like to say it was something romantic. Like your laugh, or your smile, or... or how you can completely eviscerate someone with your sarcasm. But... it was your smell. It hit me as soon as you entered the room. Mouth-watering and delicate, with just a hint of something deeper. Duskier. It almost bowled me over, to be honest.”

Kurt feels something in his stomach falter, but Blaine isn’t finished. His boyfriend leans over and takes his hand; presses their foreheads together.

“Of course now I know that I would have fallen in love with you regardless,” says Blaine, and the words are almost painfully earnest. “All of _this_ aside –” He makes a wide gesture, seemingly to encompass the motel, the woods, the world. “You are so beautiful, and funny, and strong. It might have taken me a little longer to see all that without the enormous red flag; I’m bad at romance sometimes, Kurt, you know that. But... you move me, Kurt. In a way that no one else ever has.”

It is exactly what Kurt needs to hear. He can feel a smile stretching over his lips, and he gives Blaine’s hand a squeeze.

“Do you want to head up to your room for a bit?” Kurt asks, and Blaine makes a small noise of pleasure.

“That sounds nice. I’m a bit tired, to be honest. And we can talk a bit about next month. Are you heading home in the morning?”

“Mmmhmm. I have vocal and dance classes to get back to, and Dad and Carole to spend some time with.” Kurt sighs. “I’m going to have to tell them.”

Blaine nods, then rises somewhat-stiffly to his feet and extends one hand to help Kurt up as well. Kurt accepts the hand – its fingers so very warm, curled around his own – and Blaine manages to pull him up gently.

It only takes them a few minutes to walk up to Blaine’s room, and fortunately they do not encounter anyone on their way there.

“Tina lent me a couple of books about the mating process in general, and she tried to bookmark a few places that discussed mating with humans specifically,” says Blaine as he closes the door. “Just let me grab one, okay?”

There is a small pile of dusty-looking books sitting next to the room’s rickety-looking chair. Blaine leans over to pick one up, and cannot quite suppress a hiss of pain as bending pulls at his sore muscles.

“All right, that’s quite enough,” says Kurt, voice taking on a commanding tone. “Shirt off and face down on the bed, Blaine Anderson. You need a backrub so badly it’s practically physically painful to _me_.”

Blaine’s face falls, and it is practically the most adorable thing Kurt has ever seen.

“But the books...” he trails, looking down at the books with an expression of mild distress.

“You can summarize,” counters Kurt airily, extending one long finger in an authoritative gesture. “Bed. Now.”

As Blaine strips off the baggy shirt, Kurt most definitely does _not_ get squiggly feelings at the sight of his boyfriend’s naked chest. Because he is used to the whole “the boy I love is a werewolf, and thus a bit on the more strapping side than the other boys” thing. But really, Blaine is _gorgeous._ Well-built in a way that looks nothing like the showy, bulging muscles that city guys work so hard to bulk up. Instead, he is lean and compact, solid. His nipples are small and brown, and there is a trail of dark hair leading into the waistline of his pyjama pants.

Wincing, Blaine crawls onto the bed and lies down face-first with his arms at his sides. Kurt peels off his own pants – because wearing skin-tight jeans while giving someone a backrub is more uncomfortable than it is sexy— straddles his waist, and experimentally digs the heels of his hands beneath his boyfriend’s shoulder blades. Blaine lets out a pathetic groan, and Kurt begins to slowly work the muscle there. Blaine’s skin is unnaturally hot, and it is a challenge to find a balance between being gentle and making sure that Blaine can actually _feel_ his hands.

“Nngggh,” mumbles Blaine, his face buried in a pillow, as Kurt moves his hands up to knead the flesh between Blaine’s neck and shoulders. “That’s... ffffffffuck.”

Kurt lets out an involuntary giggle. Blaine makes a small indignant sound, but it is quickly converted into a groan of mingled pain and pleasure as Kurt works his fingers in harder. Kurt may look delicate, but years of practice have taught him not to go easy with post-transformation backrubs. Blaine’s whole body may be sore, but not taking the time to properly treat the muscles will just mean they will take longer to heal.

“’s just not fair,” says Blaine, still muffled by the pillow. He sounds dazed and slightly drunk on sensation. “I have... nggghh... extenuating circumstances.”

“You had a rough night, didn’t you?” asks Kurt with near-clinical calm. Blaine groans in response. Deciding that the shoulders are fairly well-massaged, he slides his hands down to focus on the area between Blaine’s shoulder blades and lower back. Blaine makes a helpless, needy noise and clenches his hands in the sheets.

Kurt isn’t sure if he should enjoy making Blaine moan and whimper like this _quite_ as much as he does. It makes him feel... powerful. In control. It’s a nice change, and one that has certain parts of his body even more interested than others. The heat of Blaine’s skin in combination with the _noises_ he’s making is practically sinful, after all. Kurt can hardly be blamed for what is a completely natural reaction to having his boyfriend moaning and helpless beneath him.

“Go on, then,” says Kurt, digging his thumbs into a particularly coiled knot and beginning to work it loose. Blaine makes a noise that is half-confusion, half-pain. After a minute of pressing small hard circles, it releases. Kurt leans forward until his lips are just brushing against the curve of Blaine’s ear. “Summarize for me,” he whispers.

“Oh, that is crue— ah!” Blaine exclaims, as Kurt presses the heels of his hands into his boyfriend’s lower back and _pushes_ , leaning his whole weight into the movement. Blaine’s back cracks with a satisfying _clunk_ , and even though Blaine is making tiny indignant noises his body is practically _purring_ with satisfaction. “... m’kay, m’kay... but go easy on me, sweetheart, otherwise I won’t be able to string two words together.”

Satisfied with the compliment to his massaging abilities, Kurt complies – and Blaine begins to speak.

“Nnngh... well... I went and talked to Tina, and she’s looking up some more specific information. But from what I can tell so far, our ritual is going to be quite similar to the standard mating p – ah, mmmm, right there – process, but with a couple of adjustments. How much do you know about the mating ritual?”

“Mm. Just the basics, really.” Kurt’s hands rub little circles into the base of Blaine’s spine. “Night before the full moon, drink each other’s blood –”

“We’ll probably have to have a knife and bowl setup or something, because you don’t have sharp teeth or nails.”

“Ooh, that’s a little bit vampire-esque.”

“Kurt, be serious. Vampires don’t exist.”

“ _Anyways_. Then we’ll have some intense animalistic sex, followed by another little guzzle of crimson delight – and hey presto!” Kurt raises his hands from Blaine’s back, and his boyfriend whimpers at the sudden loss of contact. “Mated for life. My scent will change, yadda yadda yadda, yours forever, the end.”

He scoots down to straddle Blaine’s outstretched legs so that he can access Blaine’s ass. He pulls the tattered pyjama bottoms down just enough that the smooth curves are entirely exposed, and begins to work the muscles there, as well. He is certain that Blaine can feel the evidence of his arousal digging into the back of his leg, but his boyfriend is too much of a gentleman to say anything about it.

“It won’t be quite as simple as that with us, I’m afraid. When – mmm – when two wolves drink from each other, it brings out the wolf’s animalistic nature. Since you’re human, if I have enough of your blood for this to work... well.” Blaine shifts awkwardly beneath him, and not just because of the massage. “I’m going to go a little bit wild. It might be safer if we have someone sit in on the process, just to make sure I don’t do anything too... drastic.”

Kurt’s hands pause mid- rub. “Okay, ew. Not exactly the biggest turn-on in the world.” Blaine tenses underneath him, and Kurt knows instinctually that he is about to begin lecturing about _safety_ , and _protection_ , and _necessary measures_. It’s very sweet, but Kurt has honestly heard it enough times to know Blaine’s ‘I love you but I want to protect you’ speech off by heart. Kurt quickly ends with, “but whatever gets this done, I suppose.” And then shudders. “Ugh, now I’m imagining Finn or Rachel or someone just sitting there and watching us get it on.”

“It doesn’t have to be _Finn_ , Kurt, that’s _disgusting_.”

And Kurt just can’t help laughing at that. Because, really. Sometimes this dark, lurking underworld can just be so _silly_. He is agreeing to become part of a group of people where having someone watch you bang? Completely acceptable. Having that person be your stepbrother? Cause to bring out the brain bleach.

A thought occurs to Kurt, and it makes his laughter still and his nose scrunch up in uncertainty. “Blaine... how will drinking your blood affect me? Is it different, or the same, or...?”

“I have no idea. Us mating with humans is pretty damn rare, actually. And those that do don’t tend to keep thorough records. We’ll have to wait on Tina for that one.” Blaine shifts again. “Do you mind if we stop for now? This is amazing, but you’re a little too good at it and I’m already a bit sore. Starting to get tender.”

Obligingly, Kurt shifts off of Blaine and onto the bed next to him. Blaine rolls onto his back, unable to contain a pleased hum at the new looseness in his muscles, and wraps his arm around Kurt so that the slender boy is cradled against his chest. He places a kiss on Kurt’s forehead.

“Thank you for that,” he murmurs, and Kurt snuggles closer into Blaine’s naked chest. “How _did_ the talk with your brother go, by the way? I have a sneaking suspicion that Puck’s going to make an announcement tonight, so it’s probably a good thing you were able to corner him.”

Kurt shrugs, breathing in Blaine’s warm smell. “I think it went all right? He was supportive in the end.” He hesitates. “Dave Karofsky was listening outside the door, though. We talked.”

Just as Kurt suspected he would, Blaine’s body immediately fills with the stillness of someone attempting very hard to remain relaxed. It is all the confirmation Kurt needs.

“Oh?” asks Blaine, carefully neutral. There is a beat, and then his arm tightens around Kurt’s shoulders seemingly involuntarily. “He didn’t threaten you again, did he?”

“No.” Kurt doesn’t give himself time to think about the next words. “He’s in love with me.”

The silence that follows this statement could be cut with a knife. Kurt is suddenly aware of his and Blaine’s breathing, and how loud it is in the empty room.

“He said that?” asks Blaine, voice tiny.

“Not in so many words.” Kurt sighs and pushes himself up to rest on one elbow. Blaine has a guilty expression on his face, and his eyes are dark with some intense emotion. “You knew.”

It isn’t a question, but Blaine nods anyways. Kurt waits for frustration to well up in his chest, but it doesn’t come. After a few moments, he decides that he isn’t actually angry at all. He does understand, even if the idea of Blaine hiding things from him does make him feel slightly queasy.

“You should have told me.” Kurt sighs. “I think... I think I knew, in the back of my head. But still.” Kurt lets out a small, almost-dignified snort and prods Blaine in the belly. “You seriously have to start trusting me, mister.”

“I _do_ trust you. I just... I have no excuse. He just... made me so nervous when he was around you, and I didn’t want...” Blaine lets out another sigh. “I’m sorry.”

They lie like that, intertwined, for a few long minutes. Eventually, Kurt strains his neck in order to catch a glimpse of Blaine’s face, and finds it crumpled with anxiety and guilt. The urge to make this gentle boy feel better, to push away his worries and concerns, wells up inside of Kurt with such immediacy and strength that it almost surprises him. Because he just can’t care, about Karofsky. _This_ is what is important: wanting to make the person you love feel better, even if they have very recently been an insecure idiot.

The renewed realization of Blaine’s body next to his, solid and toned and inhumanly warm, revitalizes something else within Kurt as well. Grinning wickedly, he shifts – and begins to press kisses down the length of Blaine’s body. He starts at the place where his neck meets his jaw, then moves down to his collarbone, eventually propping himself up and straddling his boyfriend’s body in order to keep moving steadily downward.

“I promise you, Mister Anderson,” Kurt continues, pressing a kiss to the skin right beside Blaine’s nipple. “That ship –” He kisses Blaine’s stomach. “—has truly sailed.” Kurt emphasizes this by sliding his tongue over the exposed hipbone peeking out from Blaine’s low-riding pyjama bottoms.

Blaine inhales sharply, his hands moving upward to ghost uncertainly over Kurt’s shoulders. Kurt can tell that Blaine is perplexed with his sudden interest – but not unenthusiastic. He nuzzles his nose and mouth against the growing bulge in Blaine’s pyjama bottoms.

“Are you all clean?” asks Kurt, voice coming out slightly huskier than intended.

“What?” gasps Blaine, hand clenching spasmodically on Kurt’s shoulder as Kurt mouths him through the thin fabric. “Oh, I – no, I’ll go clean up.” Shakily, Blaine stands and walks into the attached bathroom. The faucet turns on. Kurt reclines on the bed and waits, stroking himself idly through his jeans.

Kurt is aware that, according to every depiction or allusion he has ever seen in movies or porn clips, he is absurdly fussy about hygiene during oral sex. The idea of taking something so utterly unclean into his mouth is, inherently, unpleasant to him. Kurt knows that Blaine does not feel the same way about this, although perhaps this has something to do with the wolf: the idea of basking in his lover’s every smell and taste is enough to make Blaine arch up and his eyes roll back into his head. But Blaine has always been more than accommodating of his particularity in this regard.

This is fortunate because – embarrassingly, mortifyingly, nonsensically – Kurt absolutely _adores_ giving head.

When Blaine comes back from the washroom his pyjama bottoms are gone, leaving him entirely exposed. His cock is half-hard and surrounded by soft dark curls, still damp from the tap water. The sight of it makes Kurt release a small, involuntary noise of want.

Blaine looks self-conscious, but only slightly. Because every so often, Kurt finds himself in this particular sort of mood. And long years of insistence and demonstration on Kurt’s behalf have finally silenced Blaine’s unfounded concerns that Kurt only does this out of obligation, or as some bizarre way to prove himself. Again, this is fortunate, seeing as having Blaine’s cock in his mouth sounds like the most fabulous idea in the world right about now.

It takes far too long for Blaine to be lying back on the bed again, but finally Kurt has his boyfriend splayed beneath him. Kurt deliberately catches Blaine’s eyes – confident blue meeting tentative hazel – before taking him in hand and licking a long, slow stripe up the length of Blaine’s cock. Blaine shudders, but it is Kurt who feels driven half-mad with desire: it’s still damp with warm water from the faucet, and the clean taste of skin is so delicious Kurt can barely restrain himself.

He manages to, swirling his tongue around the tip instead greedily taking the entire thing into his mouth. Blaine’s cock is hardening, filling. Kurt glances up, lips barely beginning to graze the tip, only to see that his boyfriend is staring at him with a look of complete rapture on his face.

“ _Fuck_ , Kurt,” exhales Blaine, reaching a hand up to briefly card through Kurt’s hair – as though he cannot help himself. As though he simply must reach out and touch. “You’re so gorgeous. So _beautiful._ ”

Heat rushes into the base of Kurt’s stomach, and the comment renders him almost painfully hard and straining against the front of his briefs. A smirk is determinedly attempting to steal across his open lips.

“Mmmm,” he hums, and the syllable sends tiny vibrations down Blaine’s cock that make the curly-haired boy hiss in a breath of air. His hand tightens in Kurt’s hair. “Don’t think flattery will get you anywhere,” Kurt teases, pulling away just far enough for his words to be audible – before taking the tip into his mouth fully and beginning to suck.

Blaine _groans_. His hand twitches in an aborted gesture, and Kurt can feel the forced stillness in his hips as Kurt suckles at only the head. Kurt slides a warning hand up to rest on Blaine’s hip as he swirls his tongue, but it isn’t really necessary. Blaine is good at restraint, unless Kurt wants him to let go; good at stopping himself from thrusting up into the wet heat of Kurt’s mouth as much as he is good at holding back the wolf inside of him.

It makes Kurt feel so powerful, having this beautiful boy helpless with pleasure underneath him. Naked where Kurt is mostly clothed, writhing where Kurt is in control. He works at just the tip, pulling back every so often to breathe hot air over the saliva-slick skin. Every shift of his mouth elicits tiny reactions; the straining of Blaine’s cock, a sharp inhale of breath. Blaine makes a keening, desperate sound at the back of his throat – and Kurt cannot hold back any longer. He slides his mouth down to engulf the entire length, feeling his nose brush briefly against Blaine’s stomach as he sucks down around the length.

His boyfriend gasps, tangling in the sheets, and Kurt cannot help but let out a gurgled groan of satisfaction around Blaine’s cock. The feel of it filling up his mouth is so _good, so comforting._ The weight of it on his tongue, the clean but distinctly masculine taste. The way he can feel his gag reflex protesting weakly; long practice allows him to shove the reaction down. Instead, Kurt begins to set up a steady rhythm.

“Don’t deserve this,” gasps Blaine as Kurt takes his cock deeper and deeper, gasping every time Kurt pulls back and runs his tongue over the tip. Kurt reaches up with one hand and begins to gently stroke Blaine’s balls, mouth still sliding obscenely over his cock. Going faster now; sloppier, more desperate. Kurt’s jaw is beginning to get sore, but he can’t bring himself to care. The ache of it, the stretch of his lips as he takes Blaine deeper, feels _good._

“Kurt, the way you l-look... pretty lips all stretched around me, looking up through those _fucking_ eyelashes... ahhh!”

Kurt groans, takes him so deep he can feel Blaine bump against the back of his throat. It takes him slightly too close to choking, so he pulls back; but the frantic heat remains. The feel of Blaine gagging him, filling up his mouth is _so good_ – so hard, and inhumanly hot, and a delicious salty taste now leaking from the tip. Before meeting Blaine Kurt had never understood talking during sex. Kurt sometimes suspects that Blaine enjoys the sound of his own voice a little too much, but his boyfriend’s desperate words never fail to go straight to Kurt’s cock.

With a small amount of surprise, Kurt realizes just how much this has been affecting him, too. Kurt keeps sucking as he reaches down, pulls himself out of his underwear, and begins to stroke himself.

The touch of his own hand is barely important; just a tool with which to bring his body the same satisfaction that making Blaine feel good is already giving him. But the sight of Kurt getting off on this, stroking himself as he swallows Blaine’s cock, is apparently too much for Blaine. The older boy groans, a wanton edge to his voice, and moves to help. Kurt forces his hips down and launches into a frantic speed, moving his mouth _hard_ on Blaine’s cock and tightening his lips around him. Blaine whines but relents, lies back. Lets this happen.

He doesn’t want Blaine to touch him. He wants Blaine to come, hard, when the slide of Kurt’s mouth around him allows him to.

“So perfect, Kurt. Fucking perfect around me.” Blaine is babbling now, and by the tension in his body it is taking all of his restraint to stop himself from grabbing Kurt’s head and fucking up into his mouth. “Smell so good, all hot and wanting, taking me all down...” He gasps, and the last sentence tumbles out of him in a rush. “K-Kurt – please, I’m so close, I –”

It’s all the warning Kurt gets, but it’s enough. He pulls off, hand coming up to finish Blaine off. Blaine’s whole body tenses, jerks and his hips stutter – and the sight of him coming, cock pulsing up into Kurt’s hand and the hot, sticky feel of come dripping onto Kurt’s fingers is enough. Kurt gasps as his own orgasm hits and he comes over his own hand, the action almost unimportant compared to the beauty of watching Blaine come. He shudders through the aftershock and feels his whole body sing in a way that has very little to do with his own physical completion.

He looks down at Blaine, and heat flares in Kurt’s stomach again despite his orgasm a few moments previous. Blaine looks utterly debauched, lying panting on the bed with his legs spread wide and his curls a dark mess against the white linen. He is panting, cheeks flushed and eyes dark with echoing pleasure.

Kurt hums contentedly, reaching over with his clean hand to grab a tissue from the bedside table. Blaine lets Kurt gently dab at his cock, shuddering at the touch but not moving from his sprawled position of post-coital bliss. When they are both acceptably tidied, Kurt tosses the wadded tissue in the waste basket. After stripping off the rest of his clothes, Kurt crawls up Blaine’s body and kisses him, aware that his own lips are probably red and swollen. Blaine kisses weakly back, making small perfect noises against Kurt’s lips. Letting his boyfriend open his mouth and slide his tongue inside.

He loves Blaine like this, all pliant and sleepy. Eyes heavily lidded, looking at Kurt as though he is the most incredible thing in the world.

“... mm... take such good care of me, Kurt...” Blaine murmurs, and Kurt settles on top of him, resting his head against Blaine’s warm chest. He can hear Blaine’s heartbeat.

They belong to each other, like this. Naked bodies pressed together, Kurt surrounded by Blaine’s heat as the other boy reaches an arm around to hold him closer.

No matter what, they are equals in this. Facing it together.

“Blaine?” asks Kurt, the words soft against Blaine’s chest.

“Mm?” The noise is quiet, delayed: Blaine is on the cusp of sleep. Kurt doesn’t blame him. It’s been an overwhelming day for him, after all.

“Do you think anyone will be upset about this? About... us mating?”

“Mm... ‘f course not. They all love you. I can’t see why anyone would have a problem with it.” Blaine kisses Kurt softly on the forehead, then squeezes him closer. “Sleep now, m’kay?”

“Okay,” whispers Kurt, curling into Blaine’s warmth. It only takes Blaine a few seconds to drift off, and Kurt follows a few minutes later.

  
\--

  
“I have a problem with this.”

The guest dining area of the Woods’ Edge Motel was clearly set up to accommodate little more than scattered clusters of people eating meagre continental breakfast. An ignored counter in one corner of the room was clearly intended to serve as a cereal distribution hub; enormous dusty carafes that once held coffee and hot water still sit there, lonely and abandoned. At some point, however, the pack had shoved a great mass of four-person tables together in a crude imitation of one large dining room table. Every night – with the exception of the full moon – the entire pack gathers around the makeshift table to consume whatever meal has been prepared by those on dinner duty.

At Puck’s invitation, Kurt is joining the group for dinner tonight. He and Blaine had only just woken up in time to dress and head downstairs, still groggy from their afternoon naps well as what came before it. The table is stacked high with plates of pork chops and mixed vegetables, as well as two steaming bowls of pasta with steak. Kurt’s groceries have clearly been well-received by Sam, Tina, and Artie, whose turn it was to cook.

The meal had been going well; the palpable relief of the day after the full moon made for a light mood, and everyone had thanked Kurt for taking the trouble to pick up groceries. (Puck slipped him a few hundred dollar bills under the table.) Although the pork was a little underdone for Kurt’s tastes, it was a pleasant evening.

Until Puck had wrapped an arm around Quinn’s shoulder, cleared his throat, and announced the imminent addition a new – and very human – member to their pack at the end of the month. The words were barely out of his mouth before Rachel was on her feet, hands in the air in an expression of frustration.

“Rachel, what are you talking about?” asks Finn from his seat next to her. The expression on his face reminds Kurt once more of a kicked puppy; betrayed and upset.

“I’m sorry, Finn, but this isn’t about you.” Even standing, Rachel is still tiny in comparison to her boyfriend. The dress she is wearing highlights her smallness, showing off her slim waist and petite stature. She turns toward Puck, brown eyes flashing. There is a matter-of-fact look on her face. “In what twisted universe is this fair?”

“Rachel –” starts Tina, but Rachel cuts her off.

“I’ve been with this pack for _years_ now, and we always followed the rules. _No humans in direct contact with the pack._ Now, of course I understand that when Finn and Kurt arrived together, an exception had to be made. Finn needed assistance in rebuilding his delicate sense of self, and Kurt made the integration process less painful. But frankly, Finn has me now. This has been a problem for years! And you’re proposing taking Kurt in. Permanently. Without him even _turning_.”

There is a sinking feeling in Kurt’s stomach. Blaine puts a hand on Kurt’s thigh and opens his mouth as if to speak, but Finn gets there first.

“He’s my brother,” says Finn, and the words are tiny in the large room. Kurt looks around the table, and sees several pack members purposefully avoiding his eyes. Dave is among them, but that isn’t too surprising.

“Exactly!” exclaims Rachel, words coming even quicker. “How is it fair that your brother has been able to come here and visit and my two gay dads can’t? Some of us still have living family or friends, but it made sense shutting them all out when we were keeping everyone away. But that rule is being thrown in our face every time Kurt comes to stay. It’s not that I don’t like you,” insists Rachel, turning and fixing Kurt with an expression that he can tell is supposed to be sympathetic. “I do. But this isn’t fair.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” snaps Blaine, and Kurt gives him a warning look. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to give Rachel Berry the verbal smack-down; oh, does he _ever_. He knows that, when provoked, he and Rachel are more than a match for each other. But as much as he hates to admit it, she has a point that other people are going to be able to relate to.

And even aside from that... Kurt knows that he is inherently an outsider here. He simply does not have as much of a say as anyone else currently sitting at the table. And as much as ‘suck it, Berry, you’re just pissed that I’m going to live the career you always dreamed of and now you can never have’ would be satisfying to say, it simply isn’t going to help his argument.

And out of the corner of his eye, he can see Puck’s expression growing harder and harder. Quinn is sitting tensely beside him.

Dave looks down at his plate in silence.

“I’m sorry, Kurt.” Everyone turns to look at the source of the voice, and Kurt’s heart gives an unpleasant pang when he sees Mercedes, sitting with a sad expression on her face. She doesn’t look up from her plate, dark curls falling in waves around her face. “You know I love you... but it _isn’t_ fair. I miss my dad.” Kurt is horrified to see that her eyes are shining. “Why can’t he come and see me like you see Blaine and Finn? Why are you any less dangerous to us?”

“I miss my little brother and sister,” says Sam quietly, and there is a twittering of support from a few people.

“Kurt is human,” pipes up Brittany. “I can smell him with my nose.”

“ _Precisely_ what I mean,” continues Rachel, gathering steam with the support. Beside her, Finn looks absolutely miserable. Rachel puffs herself up, long brown hair swishing as she gestures grandly. “I’m personally offended by this decision. Kurt isn’t one of us. He doesn’t belong –”

“ _Enough_ ,” growls Puck, and the whole table falls silent. Rachel’s eyes are suddenly wide, and she sits back down abruptly into her chair. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Finn doesn’t look at her.

“Guys,” Puck continues heatedly. “Calm the fuck down. In case any of you have forgotten, this is _not_ a democracy. In the end, what I say goes. This whole thing was my suggestion, and I’m sticking to it. I think it’s going to make us stronger, not weaker – but only if everyone takes two seconds to think before they open their big mouths. Now, we’re not talking about this anymore tonight.”

He angrily stabs a carrot with his fork, and that is the end of the discussion. Rachel suddenly looks even smaller than before, looking down at her plate with tight lips for a few long minutes before finally continuing to eat. The rest of the meal is eaten in silence, only the clatter of forks and knives against plates ringing out in the large room. No one seems to know where to look.

Blaine grips his knee very tightly through the entire meal. Kurt noiselessly eats his pasta and wonders how on earth things got so complicated so quickly.

  
\--

  
Blaine is one of people on rotation for dish duty that evening, so after the stilted dinner is complete he runs upstairs to grab one of Tina’s books for Kurt to start looking through while he cleans up with Brittany and Mike. It’s a sweet gesture, and Blaine clearly needs to be placated after the disastrous announcement. So Kurt settles into one of the almost-comfortable motel lobby chairs and cracks open the book. Its leather-embossed cover is cracked, and the pages are yellowing.

He’s only just opened the book, however, when he hears someone clear their throat beside him. Kurt looks over and sees Mercedes, wringing her hands with a conflicted expression on her face.

“Hi, Kurt,” she says, sounding subdued.

“Hi,” he responds, and winces. Because Mercedes had been his first friend when he first arrived with Finn all those years ago. She had been kind, and funny, and helped him feel sane again after the complete disaster of their six months on the road. She’d told him about her dad a few times; his gentleness, his soft deep voice, how much he used to love taking her for ice cream on hot summer days. And the fact that, as far as he knows, his daughter is dead.

And even though Kurt hasn’t been as close with Mercedes since he and Blaine began dating, it makes his stomach twist unpleasantly to be the exception she wants her father to be. “I’m sorry,” he says, setting the book down in his lap.

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” says Mercedes, shaking her head so that her large hoop earrings sway. “Rachel was being completely uncalled for, and I just added fuel to the fire.” She bites down on her bottom lip, brown eyes shining with distant sadness. “But... it is hard, Kurt. We’ve had these rules for so long, and then you and Finn show up and they all go flying out the window. I just... can’t help but wonder _why you_. Why not my family, or Sam’s, or anyone else’s. It just seems so unfair, sometimes. Being like this.”

“I know,” agrees Kurt, but the tightness in her mouth says that he doesn’t know. Not really. He’s still an outsider, even to her. He still doesn’t really belong. He runs a hand though his hair. “I just... I don’t know how to apologize for being allowed to see my brother again. For being allowed to meet Blaine. I know it’s not fair, but... I’m still happy.”

“Yeah.” She lets out a deep breath, and Kurt can still see the wheels in her head turning. It hits him that he has absolutely no idea when he and Mercedes stopped spending time together. It was so gradual, to him. There is such loneliness in the way she holds herself, in the tone of her voice, and Kurt has no idea how to make her feel better anymore.

“I should probably head to bed,” she continues, after an awkward pause. “Still hurting a bit. You know.” He nods, and Mercedes leans over and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. Her lips are very warm against his cheek. “Night, Kurt,” she murmurs, and turns to head upstairs.

All at once, Kurt feels so much more exhausted than he did before. Worn-out and directionless, no idea what to do to make things better again. He rubs his eyes and decides that he may as well read the damn book, in any case. He opens it once more. The section Blaine had been looking through has been marked with a pink post-it note. Kurt flips to that section, eyes heavy despite the afternoon nap.

  


 ** _On The Copulation of Lycanthropes_**

  
The permanent union of two human wolves has been utilised for millennia – certainly since the first recorded incident of lycanthropy – as a method of uniting warring packs, strengthening existing groups of wolves, and uniting lovers in an everlasting alliance. It is thus an extremely important social practice, and should be examined with close attention.

The formation of this union – commonly known as “mating” – is remarkable for the physical changes it inspires in its subjects. The smell of both wolves is literally altered, intending to signify mutual ownership as well as a warning to potential threats. Increased awareness of one another is an additional side-effect of the coupling.

Successful mating between lycanthropes and homo-sapiens is quite rare, partly due to the violent way in which lycanthropy initially displays itself. The human spouses of those bitten by the wolf are frequently killed in the initial attack; alternatively, many die on the night of their spouse’s first full moon. The wolf’s need for isolation is also not conducive to finding potential human mates. Those humans that do arouse the attention of the lycanthrope are frequently killed by the very same wolf either around or on the full moon due to lack of control and madness inspired by the human’s scent. Additionally, mating can be quite dangerous for the human involved, and some perish in the attempt. A high number of humans that are taken on as full mates have this done against their will, as an attempt for the wolf to better control and keep track of the human it is so fascinated with.

The process of mating itself....

  
It is only when Kurt feels a pair of delicate, willowy arms hook under his knees and around his shoulders that he realizes he must have fallen asleep. Despite their small size, the arms easily scoop both him and the book up. The identity of the mystery person is solved when Kurt feels the prominent bump against his side.

“... ‘m not _actually_ a child, you know,” Kurt mumbles against Quinn’s chest. Her long blonde hair tickles his neck as she carries him – he assumes – upstairs to Blaine’s bedroom.

“Yes, well. You weigh about as much as one, and you don’t really look much older than five. So I think I can be excused for the mistake.” The sarcasm is evident in Quinn’s naturally soft voice, but it is not vindictive. Instead, there is a tone of affection there that Kurt has rarely heard her use on anyone except Puck.

“Mmf,” counters Kurt, snuggling absently into Quinn’s warmth. Her protruding belly feels awkward beside him. “You know,” says Kurt, brain-to-mouth filter fogged with sleep, “for the longest time, I assumed that you guys had litters.”

Quinn actually freezes mid-step.

Oh, fuck.

“I don’t think that now!” squeaks Kurt, back-pedalling frantically. He’s totally awake now, straining to get a look at Quinn’s face; all he can see is her sharp jaw line. “I mean, that’s ridiculous. You’re having a _baby_ , which means you’re... having a baby.”

He almost feints in relief when Quinn snorts at him derisively and begins to walk again. She may be slender and beautiful, but Quinn has a viscous streak that has only been accentuated by her pregnancy.

“You’re a dumbass, Munchkin-Boy.” They begin to ascend the stairs, Quinn taking each step slowly and carefully. Kurt suspects she might be trying to avoid jostling him. It’s very sweet, if unnecessary. “What was that ever-so-captivating thing you were reading, anyways?”

“What? Oh.” Kurt glances down at the book still cradled in his arms. “Just some incredibly depressing information I already knew about mating. What time is it, anyways?”

“You’ve only been out there for, like, twenty minutes. Your crazy-haired soul mate is still scrubbing up.” They reach the third floor. Any ordinary human would be slightly out of breath having carried a grown man up two flights of stairs, but Quinn is completely unaffected. She lets out dismissive huff of air. “Don’t worry too much about Berry. The girl loves drama; when she got bitten, I imagine she was happy to have something _special_ and _unique_ to set her apart.”

Kurt laughs, despite the inappropriateness of the joke. There is no need for Quinn to keep carrying him all the way to Blaine’s room as he is now wide awake. But it seems easier to let her walk him the last couple of paces. After so many years around werewolves, Kurt is somewhat used to being treated like an unusually talkative ragdoll.

When they reach Blaine’s room, Quinn deposits him gently but unceremoniously on the ground.

“See you, Hummel,” she quips, turning to walk down the hallway without another word. The brevity is a complete contrast to the kindness of carrying him up here, and Kurt suspects she doesn’t want to be too nice all at once. It might explode the universe, or something. But there is something he’s been wanting to know for days; something these old, formal books haven’t been able to convey. Realizing that he is heading back to Lima in the morning for at least another week, Kurt cannot stop himself saying:

“Quinn,” says Kurt. “What’s it like to be mated with someone?”

She pauses, and then turns. It strikes Kurt, in that moment, how completely gorgeous she is. He may not be sexually attracted to women, but he can still appreciate the aesthetics. Quinn’s features are delicate and fair, thin eyebrows and slight nose perfectly fitting her small bone structure. Her condition has not seemed to impact any part of her body apart from her swollen belly. Arms and legs still long and tiny, and not a hint of pregnancy weight around her face. It’s absurd, Kurt knows, but on Quinn it looks... right. Even her bump looks elegant, highlighted by the thin-strapped summer dress she is currently wearing.

“It was the best thing I ever did with my life.” Quinn’s words are frank, and shockingly earnest. “It’s like... I can always feel how Noah is, whether he’s in the same room or miles and miles away. He’s always there, at the back of my mind. Always with me. I always know how he feels... and I know, with every second of every day, how much he loves me. He can feel the same from me. Mating is... certainty. It’s forever. We belong to each other, and I know that I would do anything – _anything_ – to protect him.”

Quinn runs a small pink tongue over her lips, brushes her long hair over her ear. “I was a really different person before I changed. I was... ugly. And hateful. Being turned... it challenged so much of who I was, of what I believed.” She laughs, the sound small but happy. “Noah grounds me. We ground each other. And I’m really happy you’ve found someone to make that commitment with, and that it means you’ll be part of this family officially.”

The blonde-haired girl walks back to Kurt, kisses him once on the cheek, and leaves.

Kurt blinks at the empty hallway. Then, a smile spreads across his face. Still gripping the heavy book, he turns the handle to Blaine’s room and steps inside to wait for his lover – his future _mate_ – to join him.

  



	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Blaine wants Kurt more badly than he has ever wanted anything in his life. Wants to dig in his claws and fuck Kurt raw. To take him. To make Kurt his, and no one else’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. So close to being all done, guys -- just an epilogue left to go! This is the chapter we've been building up to, and I'm nervous to post it. As always, your feedback means the entire world to me. Thank you so much to those of you giving this fic a try, despite it not being something you'd generally read. It's so different what I would generally write, and you've all been so lovely. Thank you!

“Wait, ‘ _sinful delirium_ ’? What does that even _mean_?” Tina raises her head from the stack of yellowed papers for the first time in over an hour, sounding puzzled. She glares in irritation at the document, as though if she looks sternly at it for long enough it will reveal its secrets to her.

Blaine looks up from his own book, attempting to blink away some of the strain in his eyes. The words on the page in front of him are not only tiny, they are also incredibly formal. Their actual meaning has not been easy to discern: it feels as though he has been staring at the same sentence for five minutes. Next to him on the floor, lying on his stomach, Kurt remains engrossed in his laptop in front of him.

“I have no idea,” admits Blaine, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose. “What’s it in reference to?”

“Blood consumption... I think? It’s hard to tell, actually. The writing is so _faded_.”

It is two weeks before the full moon. Kurt, who has spent the previous two weeks with his parents in Lima, only arrived back at the motel earlier in the afternoon. Unfortunately, the excitement of having him back for a few days has been somewhat overshadowed by the need to research the intricacies of having a human being involved in the mating ritual. There is only so much that Blaine has been able to convey via e-mail and phone calls, after all, and having Kurt completely understand the risks he’ll be taking is incredibly important. In a few days, Kurt will be back with Burt and Carole to wait out the last week and a half before the full moon. It’s awkward, having him going back and forth over a five-hundred mile distance. But Kurt had wanted to spend time with them before the ritual; to reassure them that they wouldn’t be losing another son to a malady they don’t fully understand.

They had taken the news that their son was going to be permanently bonded to an inhuman creature fairly well, considering. There had apparently been minimal yelling, and Burt had only threatened to strangle Blaine once.

A group of them are assembled in the motel lobby, which has become the de facto gathering spot during their time in the motel. Some are researching the ritual; others are there for the company. Quinn is curled up on the small couch, her nose buried in a paperback romance novel. Her feet are bare and tiny, and her hair falls over her shoulders in a way that is far too graceful for so casual a position. Santana is sitting cross-legged with her computer on her lap, headphones in and watching an episode of a reality television program. On the chair behind her, Sam is playing some sort of online game that involves elves on his laptop.

It feels good, having them all around like this. Just being in the same room with these people – without speaking a word, or even having them all participating in the same activity – feels comforting. Safe.

Tina, Blaine, and Kurt have been neck-deep in research for the past few hours. Mike had been with them until half an hour previous; he’d kissed Tina on the cheek and headed to bed, grumbling about poor translation jobs the whole while. And Finn had long ago fallen asleep on one of the chairs, slouched back with his mouth slightly open and a book lying open in his lap. With Finn and Rachel not currently on speaking terms, he is constantly available to help. If his research skills equalled his enthusiasm, Finn could have been a real asset.

The issue of finding available, easy to understand literature about the process of mating with humans is a problematic one. Their resources are nowhere near as comprehensive as Blaine would like, and what information they can find is often confusingly scientific or overly vague. Tina’s breakthrough of a blog that hinted at the process over an hour ago had been enough to send the entire room – even those not currently with their noses buried in dusty books – into a fit of whooping cheers. Despite not having been updated since 2003, Kurt had launched himself into its archives and had yet to surface since.

The absurdity of this juxtaposition – the dusty, well-thumbed tomes and the sleek modernity of an internet blog – is not lost on Blaine. It’s almost amusing: the way that the old and the new are constantly melding together, becoming indistinguishable from each other when the wolf is concerned.

“Wait,” blurts Kurt next to him, looking up at the room for the first time in ages. He looks tired, small circles beginning to form underneath his eyes. It hits Blaine that not only has Kurt done his fair share of research, but he also drove for ten hours in order to get here. It makes him want to take his boyfriend up to his room and hold him tight, let him close his eyes and get some sleep. “’Sinful delirium’? I might have something. This guy doesn’t record things chronologically, which makes it hard to navigate, but I just came across an allusion to the blood drinking. That phrase sounds like an old-timey euphemism for... hang on, let me find it...”

The slender boy scrolls up, scans the page. “Okay,” Kurt continues. “This guy survived an attack where his wife got turned, right? He uses initials to talk about some of the stuff he wouldn’t want people to recognize. ‘M’ is his wife. Werewolf is ‘W’, obviously, and I’m thinking that ‘B’ is blood.”

He takes a breath, then reads from the screen. “ _M and I didn’t know what to expect, but when we starting drinking each other’s B we both started to feel differently than her W friends had described. She began to get wilder, more unhinged than we’d expected – and the world began to dissolve around me. I can honestly say I don’t remember the night with any accuracy. Drinking M’s B was like madness; for me, that night is entirely made up of flashes of images, sounds, and sensations. I couldn’t have defended myself against anything, and M tells me I babbled nonsense and writhed like some desperate thing. She says it was a miracle that she was able to restrain herself, and that I survived the night – although I woke up very much worse for wear the next morning..._ ” Kurt cuts off and looks toward Tina. “Think they’re the same thing?”

Blaine, however, cannot speak. He closes his eyes against the image of Kurt, sprawled across the floor of some dimly-lit room, writhing in the throes of sensation. His lover’s long, pale hands tangled in his own hair as his hips arch up into some unseen pleasure. Pupils dilated so wide that Kurt’s gorgeous blue eyes are almost entirely black. In the unbidden vision, Kurt is _moaning_ —crying desperately into the room to be touched, to feel, to –

He pinches his arm _hard_ to ward off the fantasy, but its effects are immediately apparent. Blaine lets out a shaky breath and counts to five slowly in his head. Santana is looking up at him over the top of her laptop, a smirk playing across her full lips; everyone in the room can smell his reaction, of course, but she is the only one to be so blatant about it. She glances over to where Kurt is sitting, then back to Blaine, and licks her lips with a wicked expression on her face.

Ashamed of the hardness growing between his legs, Blaine turns back to Kurt. The slender boy has propped himself up on his elbows and appears to be deep in fervent conversation with Tina.

“— werewolf blood has so many mystical properties already, of course it would be overwhelming for a human being to ingest!” Tina exclaims excitedly, her book discarded.

“Which means that we’re definitely going to have to have someone sit in on us,” adds Kurt, wrinkling his nose. “Since I’m apparently going to be utterly incapable, and Blaine’s going to turn into some sort of raging sex fiend.”

“That’s not too unusual,” adds Tina comfortingly. “The, erm. The sitting in part, not the sex fiend part. Even when it’s just two of us doing the mating. There’s usually someone on hand, even if it’s only in case first night rights get invoked.”

“... wait, in case _what_ gets invoked?”

“First night rights,” says Blaine. Kurt’s shirt has ridden up slightly at the back, and a small expanse of pale skin is exposed above the line of his jeans. Blaine leans over to absently smooth the fabric back down. “There’s a proper name for it, but you know. The fact that the alpha has the right to be with his pack member’s significant other during the mating ritual.” He leaves his hand in the small of Kurt’s back, thumb stroking softly through the shirt. Kurt’s waist is so tiny.

It takes Blaine far longer than it should to realize that his boyfriend is looking at him with an look of startled disbelief on his face.

“What?” asks Blaine, blinking.

“Seriously?” asks Kurt, raising himself into a sitting position and looking right at him. There is an expression on his face that Blaine is not very used to seeing. Something extremely... prim. Stiff. Blaine inhales, and smells the change in Kurt’s demeanour. There is something ever-so-slightly _appalled_ twisted into his usual scent. “That actually _happens_ and you didn’t _tell_ me?”

Blaine can feel his brow furrowing into an expression of confusion. He can’t shake the feeling that Kurt is annoyed at him; as though he’s done something horribly wrong. “Of course I did. It was in that e-mail attachment I sent you.”

“Yes, I read that. And like any sane human being, I assumed it was some sort of weird ancient ritual that no one actually _does_ anymore.” Kurt is definitely upset now, words coming quicker and harder. There is an edge of sharpness in them.

 _We aren’t human beings,_ Blaine wants to say, but stops himself. He may speak without thinking far more than advisable, but even he knows that this would not be a wise choice of words. Santana glances up from her laptop but quickly looks down again, uninterested.

“Nah, first night rights are standard stuff,” pipes up Sam, wrenching his eyes away from his computer screen and looking down at Kurt. “Not every pack leader does it, though. But in my old pack? It was actually mandatory if the union brought in new members.” He smiles, and promptly goes back to his game.

“But what’s the _purpose_?” asks Kurt. His voice is higher than usual, and there is a slightly desperate note in it. Blaine frowns. “Why would anyone choose to do that?”

“It’s actually fairly practical, you know,” chimes Quinn coolly from the couch, taking a moment to finish her paragraph before continuing. She looks up from the book and looks right at Kurt, expression neutral and even. “It keeps people in line, and the pack together. It’s a good way of showing authority over new members, too. Or acceptance. It can instinctually change the way the pack interacts with someone.”

“In Romania, it’s standard practice to invoke the rights every time a mating takes place,” says Tina matter-of-factly. She shrugs.

“... oh,” says Kurt, looking down at the floor. He looks so very small, so very deflated – and something twists painfully in the bit of Blaine’s stomach. It isn’t fair to expect Kurt to automatically be all right with every part of his – admittedly incredibly bizarre— life. Intellectually, Blaine knows this. But Kurt has taken so much in stride. He’s stood by his brother through so much, has become such an integral part of their life as a pack – and it’s easy to forget that he doesn’t actually belong in this world. That there might be a few things left that still unnerve him.

Blaine reaches over and brushes the backs of his fingers over Kurt’s cheek.

“Sorry I didn’t do a better job of letting you know,” murmurs Blaine, the incredible softness of Kurt’s skin almost making him shiver. He could tell it was half-way through the month even if he didn’t know the date; the way his body is starting to pine for Kurt is a sure sign that there are only two weeks left until the wolf will be set loose.

There is a pause, and then the tension leaves Kurt’s body. His boyfriend sighs, leaning into the touch. “It’s okay. Sometimes I get culture shock, even now. It’s just... unexpected.”

“I know. But having that actually happen, here? With this group? Not very likely,” says Blaine, and a small smile curls at the edges of Kurt’s mouth. Then a curious expression falls over his face. Kurt turns toward Quinn, still tucked comfortably into the couch.

“Wouldn’t it make you angry?” asks Kurt. He doesn’t sound upset anymore; just curious.

“Why would it?” She raises a delicate blonde eyebrow. “It’s just another responsibility. I knew what I signed up for.”

Kurt nods, and a look of understanding hardens his features.

There is a creak, and the whole room turns as the front door opens. At this time of night, the weather outside would be uncomfortably cool for an ordinary man. Puck steps inside wearing only a t-shirt and jeans, and he rubs most of the dirt off his bare feet on the welcome mat as he closes the door. Puck turns to face the group and grins.

“Hey, guys!” he says, shutting the door with a lazy slam. At the noise, Finn snuffles softly in his sleep. He snuggles into his chair, and Kurt sends him a look filled with unmistakable affection.

Puck walks over to join them, and the relaxation in his posture and the calm in his scent lets Blaine know that Puck has discovered no threats during tonight’s patrol. He walks briskly toward Quinn on the couch. “Hey, babe,” he whispers, once he is close enough for the words to be considered private, and leans over to kiss his mate on the lips. It’s chaste, but Quinn responds enthusiastically. Puck pulls back after a few seconds, his hand trailing over her bump before pulling away.

“Hey, yourself,” she whispers back, voice breathier than usual. They smell of love and dedication – of _belonging_ , and rightness, and Blaine cannot help but smile.

 _That’ll be us in two weeks._

“How goes the bookworming?” asks Puck, turning away from his mate to face the wider room. “Got anything good?”

“I think this is all looking very promising,” admits Blaine slowly, and Tina nods in agreement. The two of them have spent the past few weeks neck-deep in lore, and the impact of werewolf blood on Kurt’s system had been one of the final unknown variables. It feels so good to be getting anywhere near prepared; Blaine has become less and less gut-twistingly nervous about the upcoming ritual with every answer they’ve found. “We’ve got a fairly good idea of what to expect for the ritual itself, now, and we already had fairly decent grasp on what the side effects are going to be.”

“I admit, I _am_ rather looking forward to the whole ‘slightly stronger, slightly heartier’ thing,” says Kurt, gaining back some of his typical pomp. “You fellas sure do know how to make a man jealous.”

“Dude, you’re going to be like Wolverine!” enthuses Sam, looking up briefly from his game. His very full mouth is open wide in excitement. “Except, you know. A less hairy, skinny, really shitty version of Wolverine.”

Kurt turns and looks at Sam. His expression resembles that of staring at a child who has just said something entirely inane. “I have no idea what you’re talking about right now.”

“Actually, Kurt? I have a favour to ask you,” says Puck, and Blaine tenses. A small strain of anxiety is mingling in Puck’s scent. “It’s about the baby.”

Kurt blinks.

“Me?” asks Kurt, turning to face Puck. “What on earth could you need me to do?”

“What’re you going to call that brat, anyways?” asks Santana vaguely, never taking her eyes off her laptop screen. “You’re not actually going with Jackie Daniels, are you? Because that would be dumb.”

Puck sends her a warning look, but the smile doesn’t leave his face.

“We’re thinking of Beth,” admits Quinn, and in that moment her glow is unmistakable. It hits Blaine, then, hearing the child’s future name. Hits him in a way seeing Quinn’s stomach get slowly larger and larger simply hasn’t: Quinn is going to have a baby. In a few months’ time, there is going to be an infant in the motel with them. Giggling and gurgling, looking for love and attention. Probably crying for half the night, and all of them so inexperienced. So young, in all the ways that matter.

 _Uncle Blaine_ , he thinks, and the thought fills him with a strange giddiness. He’ll have to ask Kurt to bring over a couple of Disney movies once the child is born.

“Yep,” agrees Puck, leaning in to kiss his mate on the cheek. Quinn preens. He turns to look at Kurt, then, and he smells... like authority, of course, but something else as well. Excitement. And a hint of nervousness. “Beth won’t start to turn for a few years, Kurt. I know that you’ve got big plans for the future, but just for now: once you two are mated, would you be able to come out here and watch her during the full moon?”

“ _What_?” Kurt exclaims, eyes as wide as saucers. And Blaine just can’t help it: he starts to laugh. Partly at the horrified expression on Kurt’s face. And partly at the idea of this family – this insane, absurd, often confrontation family – banding together to help raise a child.

 _Uncle Kurt and Uncle Blaine,_ Blaine thinks, unable to stop the peals of laughter from breaking out of his throat. There are tears in his eyes, now, and his chest is starting to ache. _That child is going to have the upbringing of a million Jerry Springer episodes._

“Oh, don’t _you_ start,” snarls Kurt in Blaine’s direction, waggling a threatening finger, before turning back toward Puck. “Puck, I am terrible with kids. _Terrible._ I’d probably get frustrated after five minutes and – and run off in a huff and leave her _lying in her crib_ or something. _Seriously._ ” The desperation in Kurt’s voice sets Blaine off again, and Kurt sends a glare in his direction.

“C’mon, Kurt,” wheedles Puck playfully, but there is something earnest in his expression. “Just until we can find someone else we know is safe. It would mean the world to me – to both of us – to have someone we trust looking after our Beth.”

And Blaine can tell, even before Kurt, that this statement is all it is going to take. Kurt tenses, opens his mouth – and crumbles. His boyfriend closes his eyes in apparent pain, raises a hand to his temple, and nods stiffly.

“ _Fine_ ,” exhales Kurt, defeated. Puck whoops, Quinn smiles, and Tina squeals like schoolgirl. And even though there is a pained expression on Kurt’s face, Blaine can tell – can sense – that this exchange has made his boyfriend incredibly happy. It makes Blaine ecstatic, too, to know Puck and Quinn are so utterly prepared to accept Kurt as one of their own. That they love him.

Kurt loves them, too, Blaine realizes. Somewhere along the line – amid the danger, and the strangeness, and the constant moving from home to home – Kurt has fallen in love with the pack. In a very different way, Kurt needs the pack as desperately as Blaine does.

Without a word Blaine turns and leans in, kissing Kurt firmly on the mouth. Kurt makes a small noise of surprise, but it only takes a moment before he is kissing back. His lips are soft, willing, and his body feels so delicate pressed up against Blaine’s own. Ignoring a catcall from Santana, Blaine places a hand on the back of Kurt’s neck and pulls him closer. The tiny noises Kurt makes against his lips are so good they make him shiver.

When he finally pulls away, Kurt is staring at him.

“What was that for?” Kurt asks, a perplexed but pleased look on his face. Blaine leans forward and kisses the tip of his nose.

“For being you. For being amazing.”

Kurt smiles and lets Blaine pull him into an embrace.

  
\--

  
Of course, Kurt can’t always be around.

“Ugh,” Blaine groans, allowing himself to fall backwards onto his own bed with a thump. He scowls at the off-white of the ceiling, willing it to provide him with some sort of entertainment. The ceiling remains insentient and uninteresting in response.

However much Blaine may know that this kind of behaviour is sulky, melodramatic, and unattractive in the extreme, it’s difficult to care when there is no one around to impress.

As a whole, the pack does fairly well for itself in terms of keeping a large group of isolated adolescents entertained and busy. There are always chores to do: dinner needs to be cooked, dishes washed, and shared areas kept neat. They order and download books, movies, television programs, magazines, and comics in absurdly large quantities. Artie and Sam both have online games they’re heavily involved in, and Halo tournaments are a weekly event. Brittany has her art projects. He and Puck both enjoy playing the guitar, and Mercedes even runs her own anonymous blog.

Generally speaking, the pack tends to gravitate towards outdoor activities as well. Camping trips, hiking, play-tracking and chasing each other down amid the trees. But the fact remains that their current location is simply not very good for any of these activities.

Blaine is given to understand that Missouri boasts many beautiful forests.

Theirs is not one of them.

The wooded area that surrounds the motel is unexceptionable, and not particularly big. There is no large amount of land to explore; certainly not enough to be able to pick a direction and walk without hitting human habitation after half a day. There is nothing majestic or exciting about the forest, either: the trees are thin and reedy, the soil oddly dry for the climate. There are no sparkling pools awaiting discovery; only slightly rank-smelling puddles surrounded by mosquitoes. Their current home was definitely chosen for the motel’s easy housing, not for the beauty of the woods it lies in.

With Kurt gone back to spend the last week and a half before the full moon in Lima, Blaine feels as though he has lost his last defence against boredom. He knows that it is a very good thing indeed for Kurt to return home to visit his parents, and that there are only so many dance and vocal classes he can miss before his instructors begin to get suspicious. He also knows that once either of their locations change –when Kurt heads to New York to pursue his career, or Puck decides to take the pack out West – there will be even longer breaks between their being able to see one another.

But _really_. Blaine is _bored_.

Blaine sighs and rubs his eyes, internally acknowledging that he is acting like a spoiled child. Tina and Mike are hosting a movie night in the room in only an hour, after all. And at least he isn’t on the run for his life, or hurting innocent people. Or with the Warville pack, where there was never any modern technology allowed in order to reduce the threat of discovery.

Generally, Blaine is quite good at keeping to himself. But today...

He reaches over and grabs his cell phone off his bedside table – he’s one of the only members of the pack to own one, since most do not have anyone to contact who isn’t within shouting distance – and texts Kurt.

 _Walls are coming down around me. Cannot see through veil of tediousness and monotony. Come at once to put me out of misery. :/ - Blaine_

A few minutes later, he gets a response:

 _Oh my GOD. You are such a drama queen. And since I’m currently in a room full of dancers, that is really saying something. Now don’t text me for at least an hour, our ten minute break is just ending. – Kurt_

And another one seconds later:

 _I love you, you weirdo. – K_

Both messages make Blaine laugh out loud, and some of the mind-numbing tedium seems to lift from his shoulders. He knows, too, that Kurt loves his classes. It isn’t just that the dance and vocal training is necessary if his boyfriend ever wants to have a hope in hell of performing on Broadway; Kurt genuinely _loves_ them, even if he does have to drive for half an hour in order to get to his vocal instructor. He’s probably gossiping away with the girls in his dance class right now, in between learning some complicated routine.

An image of Kurt wearing a pair of old sweatpants and a tight t-shirt, sweat pouring down his neck and his face screwed up in concentration as he rolls his hips to some dance move, drifts unbidden into Blaine’s mind. He hums appreciatively at the idea, beginning to build up the daydream in his mind.

Kurt would have his hair styled to within an inch of its life, even just for practice. Blaine knows he always does whenever he isn’t visiting the pack – perhaps in some sort of protest at the their inability to deal with the stench of hairspray. Coiffed and gorgeous, with a bright flush in those pale cheeks from the exertion. Eyes fixed on some far-off point in the distance as he tries to remember the choreography, twisting himself into complicated positions.

There is a delicious heat growing between his legs, and Blaine can feel himself getting hard at the fantasy. He glances at the bedside clock and sees that he has forty-five minutes before he has to head up to Tina and Mike’s room; plenty of time to release some of his pent-up energy.

In this moment, he feels so completely _normal_. He can feel the wolf beginning to throw itself against the edges of his mind – the full moon is less than a week away – but he’s still capable of pushing it down for now. Of just being a normal kid who misses his boyfriend.

A slow, lazy smile begins to curl at Blaine’s lips. He reaches down and unbuttons his pants, unzips the fly, and takes himself in hand.

He starts off slow, not wanting to rush himself. Palms at his cock idly as he remembers one of the videos Kurt has on his laptop; someone with a handheld camera had taped a few of the class’s routines in order for people to be able to see their mistakes. Kurt had complained about how sloppy he was in it, but Blaine had only seen his gorgeous boyfriend writhing to the music. There had been one moment, near the end of the clip, where Kurt had looked right at the camera while simultaneously twisting his hips in the most rampantly sexualized way imaginable. Blue eyes dark with something intense and exhibitionistic before the clip cut off. Seeming to look right at Blaine through the screen.

And oh, _that_ makes the heat flare up. Makes his fingers wrap tight around his now fully-hard cock and begin to stroke in earnest as the pleasure gradually begins to build. Blaine trails his free hand down his own neck, shivering at the touch. He lets out a little hiss when he reaches his nipple, gently rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. It makes tiny sparks of heat flare in him at the touch, and he can feel his breath beginning to grow heavier.

A memory nudges at the back of Blaine’s consciousness, and it’s so good it makes him _groan_ out loud into the silence of the room. His hand speeds up as he remembers –

 _Kurt, on his knees with his legs spread wide, breath catching as he ever-so-slowly lowers himself onto Blaine’s cock. Taking Blaine deeper little by little, Kurt’s body pale and long and stretched out in front of him. Muscles strung so tight as he impales himself, making the hottest little noises until finally,_ finally _Blaine is fully seated inside of him. Hair a complete mess and biting his bottom lip, shuddering and breathing deeply as he adjusts to Blaine’s cock._

And Kurt so tight _around him; so good that Blaine can barely restrain himself from grabbing Kurt’s slim waist and thrusting up into him. Smelling so fucking good, too, the hot smell of want and need and sex making his usual scent even more mouth-wateringly intoxicating. Blaine breathes deeply, letting the smell fill his nostrils as Kurt adjusts. Blood and bone and flesh and desire, and his boyfriend squeezing his cock so tight and making Blaine’s whole body quiver with anticipation._

And then Kurt begins to move. _And fuck, it feels so amazing Blaine can’t stop himself from growling low in the back of his throat and gripping Kurt’s hips so hard he_ knows _there will be bruises the next day; little dark circles standing out against the perfect skin. Kurt cries out – a high, clear noise of desperate need –and speeds up, long dancers’ legs straining to keep up a quick pace. Blaine helps him along, guiding Kurt as he rides his cock, the slide of lube and the squeeze of Kurt’s muscles around him and pulling him closer and closer to the edge. He’s so_ aware _of Kurt around him, of every tiny move and noise and clench of muscles._

Kurt reaches down to frantically stroke himself before throwing his head back and letting out a blissful wail as he comes. Blaine moans in appreciation, the white heat of his own orgasm building at the base of his spine, still gripping Kurt’s hips tight and dragging him up and down through his orgasm.

The spasms of Kurt’s muscles pull him over the edge, shouting as he slams his hips up into Kurt’s spent body and –

Blaine comes, _hard_ , into his own frantic hand. He rides it out, the waves of pleasure crashing through him and making him arch up into his own touch. Until he is left shuddering and panting on the bed as he rides out the aftershocks, the echo of Kurt’s wanton moans still lingering in his ears.

It takes Blaine a few long, breathless moments to realize that his hair is in his eyes – sweat-slicked curls having snuck down at some point. He chuckles, breathing heavily, and uses his clean hand to swipe the hair aside. There is a sticky heat over his right hand and stomach, and his whole body thrums with the shock and delight of release.

When his phone unexpectedly buzzes on the table, it startles him out of his post-coital lull. Blaine carefully manoeuvres his way over, wipes at his hand and stomach with a tissue from the box, and checks his phone.

 _Getting water and risking beheading to text you. Cannot believe what’s going to happen in a few days. Doesn’t feel real at all; every part of me excited to see you, to make this happen. I’m nervous, Blaine – but I’m so ready. Call me tonight. <3 - Kurt_

Sometimes, Blaine cannot believe how incredibly lucky he is.

He lies back happily on the bed, deciding to enjoy the afterglow for just a few more minutes before getting ready to head to Tina and Mike’s room. The phone lies on the space in the bed next to him as his body hums in pleasure and his eyelids flutter closed.

  
\--

  
It is Blaine’s own fault, in the end, for going to Mike and Tina’s movie night literally stinking of satisfaction. It’s an accepted courtesy to clean up after anything like this in order to avoid rubbing the smell of sex in other peoples’ faces, but Blaine’s impromptu nap had made him have to rush in order to even arrive on time.

He walks in the open door to the room with a not a minute to spare, only having had time for a quick clean with a washcloth. Watching a movie with his family had sounded fun, after all, and it would be disrespectful to be late. He is still rubbing at his eyes, mouth still fuzzy with sleep, when he walks in.

The room’s furniture has been pushed together in order to accommodate the large numbers, shoved to create a rough semi-circle around the television set. Puck sits in one of the chairs with Quinn perched gracefully on his lap. Another chair is occupied by Mercedes, and Finn and Rachel – who have apparently made up – are curled up together on the uncomfortable-looking couch. They are physically close, but there is a tension still lingering between them that is clear even across the room. Karofsky and Sam are sitting at the foot of the bed, having some sort of excited conversation about time travel in film. Brittany is laughing, sprawled in the middle of the carpet with her head in Artie’s lap. He is smiling down at her as he tickles the sides of her neck. Santana is sitting cross-legged by herself on the bed, looking and smelling inexplicably irritated. Tina is sorting through an enormous pile of DVDs; Mike has apparently been put onto refreshment duty as he sorts through the mini fridge with a stack of cups at his side, ready to dole out beverages.

A quick glance around the room shows Blaine few seating options, so he picks his way across the crowded floor and crawls on the bed next to Santana. He shoots her a grin. She responds by glancing his way, rolling her eyes, and continuing to scowl at the room at large.

 _Odd_ , thinks Blaine. He and Santana usually get on fairly well.

“Titanic?” asks Tina.

“Too sad,” responds Rachel immediately.

“Ghostbusters?”

“Ugh, really?” says Quinn, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

“How about Moulin Rouge?”

“A musical?” asks Karofsky, looking up at the room. He raises a thick eyebrow. “Those things are so unrealistic.” He then turns back to Sam, and they continue their discussion about something called the ‘Grandfather Paradox’.

“I like musicals,” Blaine adds cheerfully, but the only response is another irritated glance from Santana. Which, okay, there is definitely something off with this situation. Santana can be a fairly negative and confrontational individual, it’s true – a trait that is only exacerbated by the approach of the full moon. But she has never directed her anger specifically toward Blaine, as far as he can remember. He attempts to stealthily follow her gaze, but only finds the inoffensive sight of Artie playing with strands of Brittany’s hair. Nothing to be upset about.

“I don’t know why we always do this right before our time of the month, guys,” adds Puck with a roll of his eyes. He adjusts in the seat, moving so that Quinn is sitting more solidly on his lap. “We can all barely agree on a movie at the best of times.”

“Does anyone want beer? Cider? Coke?” asks Mike, and several people raise their hands.

“I’m up for anything without guns or explosions,” adds Mercedes. “I get enough bloody violence once a month, thank you very much.”

“Aw, _man_ ,” moans Finn, looking disappointed. Rachel pats him on the arm.

“I’m okay with anything,” says Blaine, and for some reason this makes Santana spin around and glare at him full-on. She inhales deeply, dark brown eyes dragging up and down over his body with a look of disdain.

“Yeah, well,” she snaps, tilting her head to one side. “Maybe we can all be chipper like you if we had our own personal human to fuck.”

It is as though someone has poured a bucket of ice cold water over his head. Blaine blinks and opens his mouth, too shocked to speak for a moment. Santana’s words feel like a physical blow.

“ _What_?” he finally manages to get out, looking uneasily around the room. A few people are turning to look at them. “Santana, Kurt isn’t even here. And he’s not –”

“Whatever, Blanderson.” Santana is pulling herself up now, a mask of contempt pulling her stunning features into something ugly. Uncalled for.

 _This isn’t about me at all,_ it occurs to Blaine at the back of his mind. Before her next statement drives the thought right out of his head.

“Just because you have a human ass to bury your dick in doesn’t mean you get to rub it in all of our faces. I mean,” she continues, gesturing toward the room at large, “who _wouldn’t_ want a little fuck-toy at their beck and call?”

“ _Hey_ ,” says Finn, glowering at her. “Don’t say that about Kurt.”

“Why not? Because it’s true?” Santana sneers, standing up. She is in her element now; digging her claws in, drawing blood. “Dave, what about you? _Tell_ me you wouldn’t piss your pants with joy if you had a human around to pound whenever the tension gets to be too much.”

Karofsky turns beet red and looks down at his lap. But he doesn’t disagree. Horrified, Blaine surveys the faces in the room – and sees more than a few people looking guiltily away, refusing to meet his eyes. Rage starts to twist inside his stomach, hot and sharp and animal.

“Santana,” he growls, narrowing his eyes and pulling his lips back. Show some teeth, show he’s serious. “You’re out of line.”

“The hell I am.” She leans in, speaking quickly and looking Blaine right in the eyes. He has seen her this fierce, this cruel before – but never toward him. And never toward Kurt. “You need a reality check, Anderson. This gong-show you’re planning at the end of the month? It doesn’t make you equals: it makes him your _thing_.”

“ _Stop it_ ,” hisses Blaine, on his feet before he realizes he has begun to move.

“Maybe I’ll go out and claim the first hot guy I find for myself, huh?” she taunts, getting closer. Up in his face. “Get in on some of that action. Use him ‘til he’s raw and have a nice meal waiting for me when the moon comes out –”

“Lopez, you’re going to want to shut your mouth _right now_ ,” barks Puck, and Blaine is distantly aware that the alpha is on his feet. It hardly matters, though, because Blaine is so furious that he can barely see straight. His whole body is pumping with rage, hands curled into fists at his sides and _shaking_ from the effort of striking out and clawing her fucking eyes out.

“And _you_ ,” Santana sneers, hair flying as she turns to face Puck. She’s on a roll, words coming without any time to think. “What the fuck is so special about that scrawny little weakling that makes you _defend_ –”

“ **Santana** ,” Puck _roars_ , loud and strong and _holy shit_ , he looks so enormous in that moment that even Blaine can’t help but recoil. Santana looks shell-shocked, eyes wide and lips pressed tight together. “Take a walk. _Now_.”

She swallows, glances at Blaine – then turns on her heel and _runs_ out of the room, jumping over outstretched legs and barrelling out the door, slamming it as she goes. Blaine wants to chase after her, make her apologize for those _filthy_ things she said – but something other than Puck’s hard stare stops him. For a second, before she turned, it had almost looked as though Santana had been _crying_.

Santana slams the door behind her, and the silence that she leaves behind could not be more uncomfortable. Mike stands with his mouth open by the fridge, still clutching a can of beer and a glass. Karofsky is still looking determinedly down at his lap unblinkingly, reusing to look anyone in the eye. Finn looks about ready to punch someone in the face, and Blaine is still seething in the middle of the room.

“All right, I am going to say this _one_ more time.” Puck’s voice is deadly quiet, but his tone makes it impossible for anyone to do more than remain still and listen. “ _Kurt stays._ Anyone who wants otherwise can take it up with me in a one-on-one fight, because I am _sick and tired_ of everyone’s shit about this. _I know what’s best for this pack._ Now sit the fuck down and watch your fucking movie.”

And with that he strides to the door, flings it open, and leaves.

There is another moment of complete silence. Then Quinn, standing off to one side, lets out an irritated sigh.

“Well done, everyone,” she mutters, absently rubbing her stomach. Tina scrambles to put the DVD on the top of the pile into the player as fast as possible, her fingers shaking.

Blaine hesitates – and then follows after Puck, heart still in his throat and the wolf pushing at the edge of his skin. Because this is too much to deal with; the pack’s underhanded disapproval, peoples’ need to contest _his and Kurt’s_ decision that _barely fucking involves them._ He follows the scent of Puck’s anger and frustration, jogging down the stairs and finding the main door flung open.

There is a moment where Blaine considers turning back, attempting to salvage what is left of their ‘fun’ group evening – but a loud _crack!_ from outside makes him put on an extra burst of speed instead.

He steps outside, and through the darkness he can both sense and see his pack leader. Puck is breathing heavily through his teeth, and the tree beside him is missing a large chunk of its trunk. The gaping hole is splintered, quivering, and without needing to ask Blaine knows that Puck had punched it away. He walks slowly up to the brawny boy. Slow steps. Non-threatening. He stops a few metres away, giving him space if he needs it.

Eventually, Puck’s breathing calms. His fist, bloody and with large chunks of wood gauging into it, relaxes. He wrenches the larger splinters out and wipes the blood on the leg of his pants.

Blaine wants to say something, ask something. Words are on the edge of his tongue, but before he can form them fully Puck begins to speak.

“Being alpha... being pack leader. It means I can tell when things are right with us.” Puck’s words are calm, measured. Completely incongruous with his still-bleeding hand, although it doesn’t look as though anything is broken.

He continues, looking down at the ground. “It’s who I am. It’s in my blood. We’ve had a lot of people coming and going in the past few years, but... it’s really starting to get close to something good. And Kurt _belongs_ with us.” He growls out this last part. “Don’t ask me how I know that. I just _do_ , and all these idiots second-guessing my instincts is getting me fucking pissed. He brings something unique and _right_ to the pack. And I just don’t know how to make them realize that we’re stronger with him than without him.”

“Neither do I,” whispers Blaine, and Puck shakes out his bloodied hand absently. He looks out into the woods, and it seems to Blaine for a moment that he is seeing something far beyond the trees and the bushes, the leaves and the soil. Beyond the moon and the night sky.

“We’ll figure something out,” says Puck at last. He looks Blaine in the eye; attempts to smile. “Go back to the movie, Anderson. I have to go deal with Lopez.”

Blaine nods, and Puck darts into the night. Darting into the trees faster than any human could. Leaving Blaine standing in the dark, feeling empty and missing Kurt so much it hurts.

  
\--

  
It is raining when the night before the full moon finally comes.

Things haven’t been right among them since Santana’s explosion. The pack has been... off. Permeated with an almost-tangible tenseness and uncertainty, making them tread lightly around one another and keep to themselves in a way that it almost unheard of so close to the full moon. Nightly phone calls with Kurt have helped keep Blaine together, but only barely; it feels as though his family is literally crumbling down around him.

This was supposed to help. It was supposed to get rid of the problem, not make it worse than ever. Blaine still wants this; wants to mate with Kurt as badly as he wants air in his lungs and the moon in the sky. But Blaine was not around in the days when Kurt and Finn first joined the pack; was not there to witness the initial fit of outrage at bringing a human into their home. Blaine has seen his brothers and sisters catty, and frustrated, and spiteful, and cruel. But he has never seen them fracture like this before.

It all feels as helpless as the transformation, and that is terrifying.

He, Puck, and Finn find themselves waiting together in the front lobby for Kurt to arrive, all three of them vibrating with nervous tension and barely able to look at one another. Puck paces back and forth across the floor, and Finn is leaning anxiously against the window frame and tapping out an unknowable rhythm against the sill. They are three pairs of yellow-gold eyes in the dim light. The ticking of the clock above the check-in desk only emphasizes the slow passing of time. Rain pounds against the windows.

Blaine thinks that, if he stands up from his chair, he might just be violently ill. The wolf can feel his anticipation; it is straining at his skin, pulling at the edges of his mind. His hands rest on his knees, and he cannot bring himself to look either of the two boys in the eye.

Finally, _finally_ , they feel Kurt’s old truck turning down the road to the motel. Blaine stands nervously, and Finn’s fingers still from their _tap-tap-tap-tap_ against his leg. Puck takes a deep breath, and they wait. And listen. A car door opens, then shuts. Footsteps. When Kurt is practically at the door, Finn marches toward it and flings it open without a word.

The sight of Kurt standing in the doorway with a hand raised in the air to knock, looking tiny and rain-damp and _fragile, so fragile_ is enough to send a shockwave of warring emotions through Blaine’s entire body. Hold him close, keep him safe, claw the skin and see what’s inside. He pushes it down, down, down and sends a reassuring smile in Kurt’s direction.

Kurt returns it and steps cautiously inside, placing his black overnight bag on the ground before turning to face his brother. He looks... paler than usual. Excited, yes. But also nervous.

“Hi,” he says to Finn, but the word is barely out of Kurt’s mouth before he has been grabbed by his brother and pulled into an all-encompassing embrace. Blaine expects him to pull away, to make some snide comment at Finn’s expense – but to Blaine’s shock, he returns it. Buried under his brother’s body, squeezing so tight and standing on tip toe to remain on the ground. Blaine looks away awkwardly, wanting to give them their family moment but unable to pull his eyes away from Kurt for more than a few seconds at a time.

 _Going to be mine. Going to be mine tonight. Want it, want him, taste him, have him –_

Eventually, both brothers pull away. Finn tilts his head to one side with a _look_ on his face, and Kurt shakes his head and squeezes his brother’s forearm. After a long moment, Finn nods. He takes a deep breath, gives Kurt a shaky smile, and claps him on the shoulder. Then he turns on his heel and heads for the door.

Kurt stands alone in the doorway, clothes rumpled from the long drive hair dripping slightly from the short walk from his truck to the house. Blaine is already rushing toward him, unable to stop himself any longer. Before either of them know what is happening, Blaine’s hands have found either side of Kurt’s face and their lips are pressed together in a desperate, needy kiss. Kurt’s arms are around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and Blaine doesn’t need the incentive. He opens Kurt’s mouth with his own and slides his tongue inside; Kurt lets out a little shuddery breath and leans into it. He tastes of rainwater and peppermint gum, and he smells so good that it makes him growl against Kurt’s lips.

“Love you.” Kurt’s words ghost across Blaine’s lips, and Kurt’s lips trail deliciously over his. Barely touching. They are breathing the same air, warm and wet between them. Blaine leans in and kisses him again, pulling him close.

“Love you, too,” Blaine eventually manages, breaking away to nuzzle Kurt’s neck. The skin there is soft and rain-damp, and the way he _smells_...

“Come on, guys,” comes a blunt voice from off to one side and they startle apart, having both forgotten Puck’s presence. His lips are drawn into his usual smirk, but there is something serious there as well. The alpha reaches down and picks up Kurt’s overnight bag single-handedly, gesturing toward the stairs. “Two hours until moonrise; time to get started.”

“Yeah,” says Blaine, rather breathlessly. “Yeah, okay.”

Puck begins to head up the stairs, and Kurt turns to look Blaine in the eyes. He smiles, and there is confidence there that makes Blaine both insanely proud and insanely jealous at once.

Kurt holds out his hand, and Blaine reaches up to take it. Together, they climb the stairs to face the night.

  
\--

  
“Okay. Not going to lie, this is a little bit freaky,” admits Kurt, blue eyes wide as he stares down at the intimidating selection of items spread out on the coffee table.

A stack of folded off-white motel towels, three plain white kitchen bowls, two lengths of synthetic –looking cord, a tremendously sharp-looking knife, a roll of bandages, and a tube of antibiotic ointment are spread out over the shabby wooden table. All laid out like this, the objects look disarmingly sterile. Impassive.

They’ve chosen an unoccupied motel room for the ritual instead of Blaine’s own room; easier to arrange, and less of a trouble to clean up later. Its furniture has all been pushed against the wall, with the exception of the coffee table and a single chair that stand alone in the cleared space. The bedside lamp is the only source of light, and the rest of the room is swathed in half-shadows. Blaine can feel the tension building up in Kurt’s body beside him at the sight, and he immediately slips his hand into Kurt’s. Gives it a little reassuring squeeze.

“Sorry, Hummel,” says Puck, business-like and hard as he moves ahead of them into the room and picks up one of the bowls. He continues on into the bathroom and starts running the hot water. “Your whole lack of sharp bits makes this a little tricky. Plus, I really don’t trust Anderson around your arteries right now.” He fills the bowl with hot water and comes back into the main room. “Which one of you wants to go first?”

“I’ll do it,” says Blaine at once, seeing Kurt’s unsure expression as he continues to look down at the rag-tag table of medical equipment. Blaine isn’t entirely sure how much experience Puck has with anything resembling this procedure, but his boyfriend’s hesitation is enough to make him roll up his sleeve without further ado. Puck gestures to the chair, and Blaine takes a seat with his right arm outstretched and exposed.

With Kurt standing awkwardly off to one side, Puck uses one of the stretchy, synthetic cords and ties Blaine’s arm off just above the elbow. The alpha drapes one of the towels over Blaine’s knee, then picks up a bowl in one hand and the knife in the other, positioning the bowl just underneath Blaine’s elbow.

Blaine barely has enough time to wonder if this is _really_ the most effective method before Puck presses the knife into the soft skin at the crook of his elbow, and Blaine cannot help but let out a small hiss of discomfort. The blade slices easily through his skin, and blood begins to well almost immediately. Blaine turns his arm on its side, and the bowl catches all but a few drips that roll off his elbow. They land on the towel, little pinpricks of red against the white.

He hears Kurt make a small noise; his boyfriend is standing with his back to the wall, arms crossed defensively over his chest and a distant look on his beautiful face. He doesn’t look disgusted or queasy, though. Just... uneasy. Blaine wonders if this process is similar enough to drawing blood to remind Kurt unpleasantly of all of the hospital trips he has had to endure in his young life. Blaine catches his eyes and smiles reassuringly.

“Doesn’t even hurt,” says Blaine, words full of forced cheer. Because even as Puck cleans the cut with a damp washcloth, presses it tight against the skin, and rubs antibiotic ointment over the pink skin, the fact that Kurt is about to bleed in a few minutes is almost too much to handle. Within a few minutes, the cut on his arm is wrapped up tight.

“Good stuff,” says Puck, giving Blaine an almost-imperceptible pat on the shoulder. Blaine stands, feeling the dull ache in the crook of his arm and barely able to care because _Kurt is going to bleed right now_. Puck looks up at Kurt. “Hummel?”

Kurt nods, straightens up – and it is an entirely new person standing there. His face smoothes into a cool expression, and his posture is completely different. Taller. Kurt brushes his fingers against Blaine’s as he walks past, then lowers himself into the chair with absolute composure. He does, however, wrinkle his nose in distaste as Puck gives the knife no more than an obligatory wipe down with the washcloth.

“Shouldn’t we be... sterilizing that, or something?”

Puck raises a dark eyebrow. “What for?”

Kurt opens his mouth to respond, hesitates, and gives a tiny nod that concedes the point. Even if he and Blaine hadn’t been having unprotected sex for ages, the wolf’s need to restore its carrier to complete good health after every transformations renders the issue of sexually transmitted diseases rather moot. Puck ties off Kurt’s arm, prepares the bowl –

And then the knife is cutting into the pale, pale skin of Kurt’s underarm and nothing else matters anymore. Because _Jesus_ , the way his face twists up so prettily at the sting of the blade, the tiny inhale of breath – it is so fucking beautiful that Blaine could die happily _right now_. Blaine knows he is staring but he can’t help it, can’t stop himself because the contrast of the bright red ribbon of blood against Kurt’s ( _so pale, so fucking pale_ ) skin is just too much. It almost makes Blaine snarl in jealousy that Puck is the one who gets to break Kurt’s skin, to gather the gorgeous liquid up. To make Kurt hiss in pain.

Somewhere inside of him, the human part of Blaine is completely horrified that the sight of his boyfriend bleeding is making him so hard it hurts.

The rest of him just wants _more_.

“That should be enough,” says Puck at last, and then he’s cleaning the cut and _covering it up_ with bandages, and why would anyone want to hide something so beautiful? It is a good thing, though, because as soon as the cut is hidden behind a layer of bandages, Blaine’s head begins to clear. The fog begins to lift, and he is able to think straight again. He lets out an unsteady breath.

“Sorry,” says Blaine, running a hand through his curls. There is a sick guilt growing in his stomach.

“It’s fine,” Kurt replies airily, standing up and walking over to Blaine. There is a softness in his eyes, though, when he reaches up and brushes the backs of his knuckles over Blaine’s cheek. The touch makes him shiver. “I know what I’m getting myself into.”

“Last chance to back out,” says Blaine, and even though there is a joking lilt to it he has never been more serious. Because this is Kurt’s choice – always has been – and if he changes his mind now they’ll just have to find another way to make this work. He wants Kurt – wants to _mate_ with Kurt – more badly than he has ever wanted anything. But if Kurt says stop, they stop.

Kurt glances over at Puck, who is determinedly not looking their way and fussing with folding towels. He turns back with a look of steely resolve in his eyes. Then he leans in and kisses him. The soft press of Kurt’s lips against his own is sweet, chaste, and Kurt pulls away after only a few moments. His gorgeous blue eyes are full of determination.

“Let’s do this,” says Kurt, voice high and clear in the darkened room. Blaine’s whole body tightens with anticipation.

Puck sets out both full bowls on the ground, and they sit themselves down on the beige motel carpet to drink. This is the part that Blaine has been both dreading and daydreaming about, and the fact that he is about to take part of Kurt _inside_ himself like this... he shudders, cupping the white porcelain bowl full of _blood Kurt’s blood red warm smells so good_ in his hands.

Sitting across from him in a graceful kneeling position, Kurt picks up the bowl of Blaine’s blood and wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“Oh, god, this is going to be difficult,” says Kurt, before scrunching up his face and tipping the contents of the bowl back into his mouth. He makes it through about half before gagging and spluttering slightly, mouth bright red and a tiny trickle of it running down his chin. “Ugh, that’s vile. Sorry, Blaine, still a human. And this is just gross.” He wipes a hand across his mouth before drinking the rest of the blood in one gulp, apparently determined to get the experience over as quickly as possible.

Blaine can’t wait any longer. He grabs the bowl of Kurt’s blood with trembling fingers and raises it to his lips, drinking greedily. And oh, god, it’s good. The wolf _howls_ inside him at the taste; familiar and animal and warm, but _better._ It tastes as good as Kurt smells, and the wolf has wanted this for so long. Has wanted to claw Kurt open, drink him deep, flay the skin. And this is even better, because Kurt is _letting_ him have this. Blaine doesn’t pause for breath and can’t force himself to savour the taste, swallowing in large gulps with his eyes shut in ecstasy. He finishes off the contents of the bowl with a shuddering breath, gasping as he licks every trace of Kurt’s blood from his lips.

After taking a few shaky moments to fully appreciate the aftertaste, Blaine manages to look up at Kurt. The slender boy is still sitting in front of him, clutching his head with one hand and looking fixedly at some point in the room. He looks so beautiful like that, a flush creeping up his neck and posture loosening, and Blaine feels a twinge of something hard and wanting and hungry beginning to grow in his stomach. He _wants_ Kurt, more badly than he has ever wanted anything in his life. Wants to dig in his claws and fuck Kurt raw. To take him. To make Kurt his, and no one else’s.

The blood is affecting both of them. Blaine feels a growl building deep in his throat, and Kurt looks up at him through fogged eyes.

“ _Blaine_ ,” breathes Kurt, and Blaine sees that his pupils are almost totally dilated. He’s breathing heavily, swaying where he sits. “Blaine, h-honey. I... I feel so _strange_.” Kurt’s hand trails distractedly down his own chest, fingertips catching on the opened collar and revealing more of his boyfriend’s pale collarbone.

Blaine growls, tries to lunge forward – he wants to pull Kurt on top of him and into a searing, claiming kiss – but is stopped by a large, firm hand on his shoulder. A sound, practically a yelp, escapes Blaine’s throat. He wants to claw at it, to get to Kurt _now_. But he can’t move. He turns, and realizes that it is Puck who has stopped him; Blaine had almost forgotten he was here.

Puck crouches down next to him, his hand still on Blaine’s shoulder and a resigned expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, Blaine,” says Puck, and the use of his given name startles Blaine to his core. To Puck, he has always, always been ‘Anderson’. The use of his first name now is... jarring. It means something. Puck looks right into his eyes, yellow meeting yellow, and holds his gaze. “I’m invoking the rights.”

“What?” Blaine asks stupidly. “Why –?”

“You know why,” Puck says softly.

And Blaine does. The pack in tatters, straining at the edges. Furious at Kurt for being the exception, for mattering, for being different. A way to show acceptance, to bring Kurt into the fold. To connect him instinctually to the rest of the pack in a way that no one could possibly deny.

There is a war going on inside Blaine’s mind. His human side is roiling, swollen with jealousy and anger and hatred. Wanting to resist, to fight and scream and wail in protest. Because Kurt belongs to him; has done since the day they first met years ago. Because it feels like such a betrayal to let another person have Kurt like this, to agree to this without protest. Because _they love each other, damnit,_ and why can’t that just be enough?

 _He’s mine, he’s mine. Can’t touch him, you have no right. Please just leave. Go away and let this be ours. Don’t do this._

But the wolf, so close to the moon and strung out on the sweet taste of human blood, is already submitting to its alpha. In his mind, the wolf is rolling onto its belly, expositing its weakness and surrendering completely.

This was always a possibility, after all.

Blaine breaks Puck’s gaze and lowers his head, staring down at the floor. Obedient to the very end.

 _Alpha. Knows what to do. Have to obey. Knows what to do._

He feels a broad hand reach out and cradle his face, a large thumb swiping over his cheek. Blaine leans into the touch, still looking down at the ground.

“You don’t have to stay,” says Puck, voice sympathetic and gentle. “You can wait outside, if you want. I can come get you when it’s done.”

“ _No_ ,” insists Blaine, looking up into his alpha’s face. Puck’s expression is hard, but there is kindness there as well. He is still cradling Blaine’s face, touch warm and comforting. “No, I want to stay. Can I please stay?”

“All right,” says Puck, and he leans forward and presses a kiss to Blaine’s forehead.

They sit there, unspeaking, for a long moment. And then Puck is pulling away, crawling across the floor to Kurt. During their conversation, Kurt seems to have fallen into a slumped position on the ground, lying on his back, staring into nothing as he pulls absently at the bandages on his arm. He has worked several long white threads free. Puck reaches forward and gently pushes Kurt’s hand away.

“You’ll unravel it if you keep playing with it,” says Puck, but his words are gentle despite their reprimand. Kurt stares up at Puck as though he is something incomprehensible in response, fingers twitching to make their way back to the bandage. Puck sighs and pulls Kurt into a sitting position one-handed. The alpha has to keep his hand in the small of Kurt’s back in order to keep him upright: the smaller boy is loose-limbed and dazed.

Blaine’s fingers twitch at the sight. It’s so wrong, seeing someone hold Kurt like this. Kurt, whose blood is warm in Blaine’s stomach and tasted so good, so intoxicating. He wants desperately to be jealous, but the emotion just won’t come.

Puck would never do this if it wasn’t necessary.

“Don’t worry, Hummel,” murmurs Puck, brushing a strand of hair out of Kurt’s eyes. “We’ll get you back to your boy soon.”

And with that, Puck begins to unbutton Kurt’s shirt.

The touch makes Kurt gasp, loud and dramatic, as Puck’s thick fingers begin to work the small round buttons undone and the green fabric of Kurt’s shirt begins to fall open. More and more of his pale chest is showing with every button.

“ _Blaine_ ,” gasps Kurt, licking his lips and staring with uncomprehending confusion down at his own chest. “W-what? I don’t... what’s...?”

“Shhh,” says Puck, leaning in to kiss Kurt’s neck, still unbuttoning his shirt all the while. Kurt _gasps_ , and gasps again when Puck trails his lips up and kisses Kurt’s cheek. “Shhhh, it’s okay.” And with that, Puck kisses Kurt right on the mouth.

Kurt tenses at the touch at first, grabbing onto Puck’s forearms and clenching into the fabric of his shirt. The alpha keeps at it, though, care and caution evident in the touch. The tender press of Puck’s lips against Kurt’s; the way Puck’s tongue swipes across Kurt’s bottom lip. Until finally Kurt begins to relax into it, responding with sloppy, open-mouth kisses and shuddering deep breaths. Kurt’s eyes flutter closed, and his whole body seems to be trembling.

Blaine groans at the sight, his erection straining once more at the fabric of his jeans. He can feel sweat begin to break out across his forehead. It had never seemed important, before, how much _bigger_ Puck is compared to Kurt. But it is all he can think about now, as Puck slides the shirt off Kurt’s shoulders. Puck’s hands are so much larger, so much rougher-looking against Kurt’s delicate pale skin than his own tend to appear. It looks as though Puck is completely encompassing Kurt, all wrapped around him and keeping him safe. He is broader, and darker, and the contrast is making Blaine whimper and palm his cock through his pants.

The shirt now off, Puck guides Kurt into a lying position and begins to unbutton his jeans. Kurt makes a noise in the back of his throat, head lolling back and hands coming up to tangle in his own hair. The jeans are snug, but Puck has strength on his side; with a minimal amount of trouble, they too are discarded on the floor. A quick tug is all it takes to rid Kurt of his designer black briefs, and then Kurt is lying naked on the motel room floor.

Blaine has seen Kurt naked many times, is familiar with the sight. The flatness of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hipbones, his long pale legs, the way the hair between his legs is always immaculately trimmed in a way that leaves his cock and balls on glorious display. But there is something about how _wanton_ he looks like this, splayed out and flushed underneath another man, that makes heat in the pit of Blaine’s stomach flare up _hard_ and leave him whimpering like a puppy.

The alpha leans down to kiss Kurt again, hand trailing down his pale chest to trail his fingers over Kurt’s nipple. Kurt _moans_ into Puck’s mouth, leaning into the touch and panting against the larger boy’s mouth. When Puck’s hand finds Kurt’s cock – sure and determined, not hesitant in the slightest – Kurt throws back his head and arches up into Puck’s hand, his beautiful mouth open and panting.

He doesn’t notice Puck’s hand reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the small bottle of lube; doesn’t even acknowledge when Puck’s hand leaves his rosy cock, just keeps twisting up into a non-existent touch. It’s only when Puck’s lube-slicked finger begins to press at his entrance that Kurt gasps and tenses up, fingers clenching into the cheap beige of the motel carpet and eyes darting around for someone who isn’t there.

And Blaine simply cannot do this anymore. Cannot sit here on the sidelines, helpless to watch the boy he loves get taken. He moves without thought, words bubbling up in his throat before he can stop them.

“It’s okay,” says Blaine, voice sounding choked and raw to his own ears. The moon is pounding in his veins and he is so hard it hurts, but none of that matters. Kurt needs him. _His Kurt_ needs him. He starts crawling over toward Kurt and Puck on the floor, speaking all the while. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just relax, all right? I’m here.”

“Blaine,” breathes Kurt, and Blaine almost purrs at the sound of his own name coming out of Kurt’s kiss-swollen lips. Kurt’s voice is so beautiful, just like the rest of him. High and pretty, almost musical. Blaine positions himself behind Kurt and pulls the slender boy into his arms so that Kurt’s back is pressed against Blaine’s chest.

“Just relax,” whispers Blaine, stroking Kurt’s sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes.

After a moment, Kurt does. His body goes loose in Blaine’s arms, and Puck’s finger is able to slide inside with only a small inhalation from Kurt. They lie there together on the floor, Blaine cradling Kurt in his arms as Puck’s fingers work him open. Stretching him wider, scissoring inside with precision that speaks of long experience. Kurt mewls in pleasure every time Puck’s fingers brush against his prostate, arching up into Blaine’s hold.

“That’s it,” Blaine coos as Puck adds a third finger, making Kurt gasp and his bright blue eyes fly wide open in shock at the sensation. “It’s okay, baby. You’re doing so good.” Blaine kisses Kurt’s forehead and holds him tight as Puck’s fingers stretch him wide.

Puck looks up, and their eyes meet over Kurt’s writhing body between them. Puck raises both eyebrows, and Blaine nods in confirmation. Slowly, Puck begins to draw his fingers out. Kurt _groans_ in protest, clamping down around them, and Blaine knows that he must feel so empty without the fingers to fill him up. Cold and slick and wanting at their absence.

But the feeling won’t last long, because Puck is unbuttoning his pants, unzipping, and pulling them down over his hips. He’s big; hard and flushed and jutting out from a sea of brown curls. The alpha squeezes more lube onto his fingers, spreading it generously over his cock. He hesitates, running a hand down Kurt’s stomach in a gentle, caring way.

Then Puck positions himself, grips Kurt’s thighs in either hand, and begins to slowly push inside.

“Ah!” Kurt cries at the sensation, but Blaine is quick to press reassuring kisses against his sweat-damp hair. To hold him close and trail loving hands over that beautiful chest.

“You can take it Kurt, I promise,” mutters Blaine into Kurt’s hair, trailing endearments along his skin. Kurt is shaking in his arms as Puck enters him, big and blunt and ever-so-slow. “Sweetheart, angel. It’s all right. Just breathe.”

Kurt groans and hides his face in Blaine’s arms as Puck fills him up, sliding in maddeningly slowly until he is buried in Kurt to the hilt. Blaine looks up to see Puck shuddering as Kurt squeezes around him.

“All right, Hummel?” asks Puck, rocking gently forward. Kurt can only keen in response, rocking back into the movement. Kurt tilts his head back and gives Blaine a beseeching look, eyes still glazed over – but this time with desire as well as the affects of the blood.

“ _Please_ ,” Kurt whimpers in his arms, looking right up at Blaine the whole time. “So good, _please_...”

The last word strangles off into a moan, sweet and high and innocent. And fuck, Kurt’s _voice_. It hits Blaine right in the gut. Musical and soft, wrapping around the syllables and turning them into something perfect and needy and right.

“He’s fine,” murmurs Blaine, stroking a hand down Kurt’s chest.

Puck begins to move – and all Kurt can do is cling to Blaine and moan, arching up into the sensation as best he can. His head is lolling against Blaine’s chest, clearly lost in the sensation and addled by the blood; Blaine holds him tight, keeps him steady. Having Kurt in his arms like this, writhing in pleasure and himself completely untouched... it feels so strange, but Blaine can’t think about that right now. Can only hold his lover tight as he gets fucked by another man, the stench of sex so thick around the three of them that Blaine can barely _stand_ it.

Sweat is beginning to bead on Puck’s chest, his face screwed up with restrained pleasure as he pushes in and out of Kurt’s body, hands clenched firmly on his slender thighs. Kurt shudders and lets out a choked noise, and Blaine looks down at him only to realizes that he’s been playing with Kurt’s nipples. Rolling the sensitive skin between his fingers, and Kurt’s whole body tenses and his breath catches. His orgasm begins to roll over him without even being properly touched – before Puck reaches forward and clamps his hand firmly around the base of Kurt’s cock.

Kurt _wails_ at the denial, voice high and clear and _desperate_ , and Blaine pulls his hands away to avoid taunting him further. He kisses Kurt on the neck as his boyfriend attempts to thrust up into the hand, but both Puck’s resolve and his grip remain firm.

“Save that – for y-your boyfriend, Hummel...” says Puck, his hips beginning to snap harder and harder until his whole body begins to tense. He slams into Kurt one last time, a choked groan escaping from his lips as he stills, buried in Kurt’s body as he comes. Puck stays there, riding out the aftershocks and clenching Kurt’s thighs so tightly that Blaine knows they will be bruised in the morning.

And all at once, Blaine feels something strange. It is as though there is something twisting deep in his stomach, clenching down and making him gasp. It hurts – but in a good way, like a band-aid being pulled off. The sensation is gone in an instant, but its shadow remains.

“ _Fuck_ ,” hisses Puck, panting, his hand still circled tight around the base of Kurt’s cock. There is a pause where their heavy breathing is the only sound to disturb the silence. Then Puck begins to pull back, sliding out of Kurt’s body out torturously slowly. Kurt whines in frustration, still hard and wanting in Puck’s hand. Unfulfilled and still wound tight. He twists in Blaine’s grip but doesn’t truly try to free himself. Instead, Kurt balls his fists up into the fabric of Blaine’s shirt and shakes with want. There is a small amount of pearly white liquid beginning to dribble down Kurt’s thighs and onto the carpet.

“Is it...?” Blaine begins tentatively, holding Kurt as though he is the most precious thing in the world. Because he is. Kurt is everything, everything that matters.

“Yeah,” breathes Puck, finally letting go of Kurt’s straining erection and beginning to hitch his pants back up on his hips. Kurt stays there on the floor, panting and rolling his hips. Still nestled in Blaine’s arms.

His alpha moves forward, claps a hand on Blaine’s shoulder. They lock eyes like that, holding the gaze for a long moment. It feels as though Puck is looking inside of him, splitting him open and seeing what he’s made of.

“He’s ours now, Anderson, as much as he is yours,” says Puck at last, and there is a slight hitch of emotion in his voice. Sweat runs down his shaved head, and his hands are visibly unsteady. Blaine feels such utter _trust_ toward this man that it is practically a physical sensation.

“I know,” says Blaine, and Puck gives him one more pat on the shoulder before turning and walking to the edge of the room.

 _He still has to stay,_ realizes Blaine with a small shock. _He has to make sure this stays safe._

But it almost doesn’t matter, in the end; the boy in his arms is so much more important than anything or anyone else in the room. Blaine leans down to kiss Kurt on the cheek, but Kurt responds by twisting in his hold, practically climbing on top of him until his arms are wrapped around Blaine’s shoulders, his face buried in Blaine’s neck. He’s shaking, but not with fear – Blaine could smell Kurt’s fear from miles away, he’s sure. It is _want_ – frantic, hysterical _want_ that makes Kurt squeeze him tight and cling as though his life depends on it.

Blaine’s skin is burning up, so hot with the moon and with _wanttakehave_ thrumming through his veins. It is all he can do to hold Kurt close, to gently smooth down his sweat-soaked hair and not _act_ on the growing urge.

“You did so well, sweetheart,” he manages, rubbing his boyfriend’s shoulders. “My Kurt.”

“I’m so hard, Blaine, _please_. I need it, I need to come, _please_.”

The words hit Blaine deep in the core of his stomach, but he still manages to hold on. He shakes his head, curls shaking out.

“Need to get you cleaned up. C’mon, up we go...” With that, Blaine clasps Kurt snugly to his chest and rises to his feet, his boyfriend’s weight feeling like nothing in his arms. Kurt doesn’t usually like being picked up very much; they’ve talked about it many times. How inconsequential it makes him feel, how useless. But tonight is an exception; he holds on tight as Blaine walks across the room and deposits Kurt onto the pushed-aside bed, lying him down as gently as possible. When Blaine leaves his side to take one of the washcloths from the pile of towels and soak it in now-lukewarm water, he groans in frustration and arches his hips into the air, hands fisting into the sheets. Blaine’s hands shake as he wrings out the cloth.

Kurt spreads his legs when Blaine returns, and whines in frustration when the only contact he receives is the cloth. The sounds he makes as Blaine wipes the sensitive skin clean – wipes every trace of Puck away – are practically torturous.

 _Never again. Never letting anyone touch you like this again. Clean it all, make you mine again._

“B-Blaine, please. Please fuck me, I can’t _stand_ it.”

 _Want to slam into him, make him gasp, make him forget anyone but me exists._

“I promise I want this. Don’t hold back, Blaine, please I need it I need it I _need it_ –”

And that’s all Blaine can take. Kurt looks so fucking gorgeous like this, sprawled out and fucked out on the bed, actually begging Blaine to take him. There are _tears_ in his eyes, too. Catching in the thick lashes and making them looks so fucking pretty. In one smooth movement he stands, moves to grab the discarded container of lube from the floor, and returns to the bed. He uncaps the bottle, squeezes some lube on his fingers, and doesn’t wait to slide two fingers smoothly into Kurt’s stretched entrance. Kurt groans, hands flying to cover his eyes and clenching around him, lifting his hips into the touch as Blaine roughly pumps his fingers in an out.

“You like that?” growls Blaine, Kurt’s whole body squeezing around him. He intentionally drags his fingers over Kurt’s prostate with every thrust.

“ _Yes_ ,” says Kurt. “God, yes, _please_.”

Kurt practically screams when Blaine adds another finger, mouth falling open in a wordless cry as Blaine keeps up the hard rhythm. Kurt is already stretched, so it doesn’t take much, and after a few minutes he’s shaking so hard that Blaine knows that nothing will be able to stop him from coming if they keep this up.

His fingers are sticky and slick when he yanks them out of Kurt’s body, but Blaine ignores that. Tearing at his own clothes is made more difficult by Kurt, who crawls up the length of the bed at begins to mouth at Blaine cock through his pants, pressing sloppy kisses along Blaine’s belly once it is exposed. Soon enough, Blaine’s clothes are strewn across the floor and his hard, straining cock is drenched in more lube. He easily picks Kurt up, too desperate to be gentle, and positions them so that he is sitting on the edge of the bed and Kurt is straddling his hips, facing one another. Kurt’s chest is flushed.

When Kurt leans down to kiss him, Blaine quickly takes control; grabbing the back of Kurt’s neck, dragging his teeth over Kurt’s lips and breathing in the small needy noises Kurt keeps making into his mouth. It’s hard and ruthless, a claim. He grabs Kurt’s hips as they kiss, hands wide enough to stretch around and knead into Kurt’s ass, and pulls the slender boy down onto his cock.

“Fucking _yes_ ,” hisses Kurt as Blaine pulls him down, and _god_ it feels good. Burying himself in Kurt, _losing_ himself in Kurt.

“No one else again, _ever_.” Guiding Kurt down until Blaine is fully inside of him, Kurt’s arms wrapped around his neck and his whole body shaking. He knows his boyfriend is too boneless and overwhelmed to move, so Blaine grips his hips and moves Kurt’s whole body up and downs as he pushes up into Kurt’s body in tandem. Kurt throws his head back and groans as Blaine uses his strength to slide Kurt’s body onto his cock over and over, and the hot stretch of Kurt’s body around him feeling so good it’s unreal.

“Never,” gasps Kurt, clinging to him frantically.

“Only mine.”

“Only... o-only yours, fuck, Blaine, _please_.”

Kurt reaches down and begins to desperately touch himself, hand trapped between their bodies as he frantically pulls himself off. The sight of Kurt unable to help himself any longer is too much, too _much_ , and Blaine tightens his grip and pounds up into him. Kurt is panting, tensing – beautiful and strong, and completely his – and as he cries out and spasms in orgasm, Blaine cannot stop himself, cannot stop the wolf inside from leaning forward and biting down _hard_ on Kurt’s shoulder.

A growl from the edge of the room stops him from going farther, but there is already blood flowing down Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt shouts as he comes, splattering both of their chests, and whines as Blaine leans forward and laps at the wound.

It tastes _so_ good, even better than before when it’s hot and fresh and taken in the midst of passion. Blood streaks across Blaine’s tongue and he laps it up, still thrusting up into Kurt’s body as the slender boy groans and clings to him. Kurt is trembling as Blaine fucks him through the aftershocks, fucks him through the growing sensitivity. Harder and harder, and it tastes so good, as good as Kurt so tight around him, crying out and grinding down on his cock. Blaine’s right on the edge, white heat flashing behind his eyes and so close, so _close_ –

Blaine drags Kurt down hard on his cock; once, twice, and he’s gone. Lost in the pleasure of Kurt’s body, practically blacking out as he clutches Kurt tight and comes deep inside of him. There is another growl filling the air, and after a moment Blaine realizes that it’s _him_. Snarling as the last of his orgasm hits him, still buried balls-deep in Kurt’s ass, shaking and sweating with satisfaction.

After a few moments, he comes back to himself. Kurt is spent and trembling on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck and body gone limp like a rag doll. For a second Blaine worries that he has managed to hurt him – until he feels the sweet press of Kurt’s lips against his throat, a dozen little kisses that make Blaine release an unsteady breath.

 _Need to finish it. So close, so close, almost done._

The tension of needing to come, of needing Kurt to finally find the crest of his pleasure is gone – replaced with sweet relief and a hot itch beneath his skin. They’re so close, so _close_ and Blaine needs to finish this _now_.

Kurt makes a small noise of protest as Blaine leans in and re-opens the bite wound on his shoulder, but doesn’t try to move away as he laps at the blood that trickles out. He doesn’t even object when Blaine slides him off his cock, picking Kurt up and draping him back onto the bed. Kurt’s eyes are fluttering shut, whole body relaxed, and Blaine knows he is about to fall asleep. Blaine focuses on his hand until the nails are long and sharp, then draws his index nail across his own wrist.

“Drink,” murmurs Blaine, and Kurt opens his mouth to let Blaine’s blood drip into his mouth. He swallows, shuddering, before rolling onto his side. His breath evens out and his chest begins to rise and fall in a slow rhythm.

Behind them, a door closes.

Blaine’s eyes are slamming shut, body on the brink of collapse, but the feeling of _completion_ that floods through him is enough to make him inhale sharply. This is it. This is everything.

The duelling halves of himself – the wolf and the human, two sides of the same coin, constantly struggling and fighting and straining against each other – still. Something seems to meld together in his chest. A warm rush of feeling rolls over him, and Blaine can practically _feel_ his mind begin to rearrange itself into a new pattern. Neurons firing, creating new paths and meanings and sensations.

Realization, beautiful and clear, begins to dawn. He belongs to this boy – this strange, brave, beautiful boy. And Kurt belongs to him.

“Mate,” Blaine says aloud, the word sounding shocked and reverent in the air.

 _Mate_ , murmurs the wolf from deep inside his chest.

A new awareness is growing inside of him, a shifting of thoughts and feelings and perception that he can practically feel. But it’s too much to consider right now, with their slick and worn-out bodies desperate for sleep.

Blaine only has enough energy remaining to crawl onto the bed and lie down next to his mate, to wrap his arms around Kurt’s stomach and holding him close. His eyes close, and he drifts into unconsciousness with the slender solidity of Kurt’s body pressed against his chest.

Close to him, the way Kurt is always going to be from now on.

  



	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The silence lasts for a few minutes. Comfortable and safe, the dual sound of their breathing filling each other’s ears.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's over, you guys. And I can't believe that one little prompt led to the creation of this beast! Thank you so much for coming along on this different-from-usual-but-so-much-fun journey with me. You are all complete rock stars, and thank you so much for your feedback and support! :D

**Epilogue**

Six Months Later

  
The basement is dark and cramped, and the dim glow from its one dangling light fixture is not enough to permeate every shadow and corner. Although the room itself is large, the space is cramped with furniture draped in off-white bedsheets and towering stacks of cardboard boxes. The boxes themselves are all labelled in fading black sharpie. An occasional misplaced auto part can be seen amidst the mess.

From the doorway, Kurt can make out some of the writing scrawled across the brown cardboard in the dim light. ‘ _Lizzie’s Jewellery_ ’ in his dad’s practically illegible scribble; ‘ _Chris’s Uniforms_ ’ in Carole’s neat handwriting, clearly years old.

“When was the last time anyone went through all this?” asks Kurt, peering into the dark. A large box inscribed ‘ _Finn’s baby things_ ’ sits just to the right of the basement door. “When we moved in here?”

“Nah,” says Burt, pausing to clear his throat against the dust. “A lot of this has been in storage for years longer. We mostly just combined it all and shoved it in here when we bought the house.”

“Don’t you want to get rid of any of it?”

“Some things it’s nice to hold on to, even if you don’t use them much. Now, I’m almost positive it’s just over here...” Burt moves toward one of the shapeless piles covered in white sheets, limping slightly as he steps over a sleeping bag that must have fallen down off one of the piles. Kurt follows behind him. “We didn’t need two when we all moved in together, and Carole and Finn’s was nicer. Ah, here we go.”

Burt pulls back the sheet, sending a flurry of dust into the air and revealing the loveseat underneath. The seams are beginning to fray in places, and its time in storage has left it with a strong smell of dust; it will have to be given a good clean tonight. But the burgundy is as deep and warm as Kurt remembers, and its cushions look just as squashy and comfortable as they were when he was small. The sight of it makes Kurt let out a small half-laugh as he remembers all of the shoddy forts he used to make out of its cushions, hiding underneath them to read _Goosebumps_ or _The Baby-sitters Club_ in paperback.

“It’s old,” adds Burt quickly, “and a bit small. And it isn’t designer or anything.”

“It’s perfect,” says Kurt, feeling a wide grin stretch across his face. “It’ll go so well with mom’s dresser. And it should fit perfectly in the apartment!”

“Yeah, you definitely couldn’t fit a proper couch in there. It’s _tiny_.”

“It’s _New York_ ,” counters Kurt, affronted. “Of _course_ it’s tiny.”

Burt chuckles and wraps an arm around Kurt’s shoulder, pulling him in close and giving him a squeeze.

Kurt doesn’t quite fit there as well as he used to. He’s as tall as his dad, now; maybe even taller. The memory of his father towering over him, a seemingly-indestructible fortress of gentle strength and warmth, looms large in his mind. But Burt’s embrace is as loving and comforting as ever: that, at least, is unchanged by time. Kurt leans into the warmth of Burt’s shoulder and breathes in his father’s familiar smell. No name brand soap, and Old Spice, and motor oil. The rough material of Burt’s work shirt is scratchy against his cheek.

The embrace lasts slightly longer than it normally would, and when Burt finally pulls away he coughs. Sniffs loudly. Kurt gives him a minute, waiting for the tightness in his own throat to fade.

“Now,” says Kurt, once almost a full minute has passed. “Do you feel up to helping me get this upstairs?”

“Hey, I’m still your old man,” insists Burt, clapping a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Of course I do.”

The loveseat is fairly light, and getting it upstairs isn’t too difficult – although Kurt does take most of its weight as the two of them haul it up the basement steps. When they reach the first floor landing and set it down, he takes quick stock of his father. Burt is slightly out of breath, but not dangerously so. He doesn’t seem to be favouring his leg any more than usual. His dad removes his ball cap and swipes a hand across his forehead.

“You found it!” cries Carole, coming around the corner. She takes a proper look at the loveseat, then lets out a happy sigh. “Oh, Kurt, you’re so right. It’s going to look wonderful in your new place.”

His stepmother smiles warmly at the two of them before blinking, hard, and inhaling deeply through her nose. For just a split second, something faraway and wistful comes into her expression. She presses her lips together tightly, and Kurt can practically read the what-might-have-beens and never-again-memories in her expression. After a few moments, however, Carole is smiling again. She leans forward and runs a hand –the one with only two fingers – through Kurt’s hair absently.

“Your father and I are so proud of you,” she says. “Following your dreams like this... you’re going to take that city by storm.”

“New York isn’t going to know what hit it,” adds Burt, puffed up with pride. Kurt’s eyes are starting to sting, and he can feel a tightness in his chest.

“You’re sure,” says Kurt, words coming out in a rush. “You’re sure it’s okay. If I go. I won’t... I won’t be leaving you.”

The two of them exchange a look, and Burt wraps an arm around Carole’s waist.

“We’ll be fine, kiddo,” says Burt.

“Finn’s last e-mail helped,” adds Carole quietly into Burt’s shoulder.

Kurt reminds himself to thank his brother at the next available opportunity for whatever he wrote, because the two of them look... fine. Solid. Like they’re going to be okay. And it’s hard, because he knows that everything is going to change tomorrow. Everything is going to be different.

But at the same time, nothing is. Because even broken apart, stretched across thousands of miles, the four of them are still a family. There is a connection there that distance cannot break.

And at least, this time, the separation is voluntary.

Kurt glances up at the hallway clock, whose hands indicate that it is 6:07pm.

“I have to go finish boxing up the last couple of things in my room, and then I have to take a call,” says Kurt, but he cannot quite stop staring at the sight the two of them make together. Carole with that sad-but-proud smile on her face, and Burt with his arm wrapped protectively around her. He can tell by the slight movement in her arm that Carole is rubbing small circles into Burt’s back; she is small enough to tuck into his father’s shoulder in just the way he used to when he was younger.

There is so much love and support in the way they hold each other, standing in the hallway of their too-large house. And Kurt knows that they are, in fact, going to be fine.

“Dinner should be ready by 7:30,” says Carole. “After we’ve had a quick bite, we can get the loveseat and the last few boxes packed into the truck, all right?”

Kurt nods, and then leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. Her tiny hum of pleasure rings in his ears as he heads upstairs to his bedroom.

  
\--

  
Most of Kurt’s bedroom is already tucked into boxes, but there are a few things left aside to deal with at the last minute. His toiletries, the last of his clothes. A couple of books he’ll be leaving behind, but hasn’t got around to sorting through yet. Kurt settles himself on the floor and begins to categorize the stack fo books – mostly assigned reading from English, children’s books he didn’t like or doesn’t remember, and young adult literature he is now ashamed to have enjoyed – into piles of ‘storage’ and ‘goodwill’.

His cell phone sits on the floor next to him, turned up to full volume.

By the time it finally rings, Kurt has managed to finish up with the books and has packed all but the most necessary-for-tomorrow-morning toiletries into a travel bag. He is sitting cross-legged on his still-made bed – a twin is all that will fit in the new apartment, and he and his dad are going to pick up some sheets for it once they reach the city – with a last few piles of clothes strewn around him. He answers after the second ring, noting that the time on his phone indicates 6:32pm.

“Hey, you,” says Kurt into the receiver.

“Hey,” replies Blaine, sounding slightly out of breath. His voice alone, even in that one syllable and with the tinny quality that the best cell coverage cannot get rid of, is enough to make Kurt’s head loll back against his pillow and a wide grin spread across his face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call earlier. The sitter was a bit late, and when she finally showed up I volunteered to take Beth so that Quinn could give her instructions in peace.” The image of Blaine offering up his babysitting services in that slightly-too-eager way of his – as though he _genuinely_ would rather be doing nothing else than hold a fussing child and waggle stuffed toys in front of her face – is enough to make Kurt laugh into the receiver.

“Hey, Beth is a _handful_ and you know it,” Blaine says, jokingly defensive. “It’s not fair for anything that’s only four months old to have so much energy.” A pause. “She also seems to have developed an unhealthy fixation with my hair.”

“Mm,” agrees Kurt softly. “Your hair is quite remarkable.”

Kurt takes a deep breath, closes his eyes – and allows himself to really _experience_ it. To feel it in the way that everyday life simply doesn’t permit. He allows the now ever-present echoes of Blaine to move from the edge of his mind to the forefront; to let the way he _feels_ Blaine inside his head become the main focus instead of a warm background presence. Kurt lets himself bask in Blaine’s affection for Beth, in his gentleness and his excitement at having a child to hold and love and entertain. He feels Blaine’s apprehension at the sun, hanging low in the sky, and feels his own skin prickle in phantom anticipation.

And Kurt can feel Blaine’s love for him, too. Strong and deep and constant. Unrelenting and gentle, Kurt can feel the bond between them stretch across the distance. Made of something stronger than emotions, now.

He lets _the way Blaine loves him_ wash over his entire body as he lies back on the bed; it makes him shiver. Kurt honestly cannot remember how they used to manage, being so far apart and not being able to feel each other like this. Like a physical presence within their bodies.

The silence lasts for a few minutes. Comfortable and safe, the dual sound of their breathing filling each other’s ears. Hundreds of miles away, Kurt knows that Blaine is doing the same thing he is.

“Sorry for not being able to be there today,” adds Kurt after a while, when he is finally willing to pull himself away from fixating on the warm, sweet presence of Blaine in his mind. “Having some random babysitter from town in the house must be pretty weird.”

“Don’t apologize!” Blaine chastises him. “You have to move tomorrow, and we’re all just grateful you’ve been able to be here for as many full moons as you have. Besides, I do believe that Quinn and Puck are spinning her a pretty convincing story. And it’s not like we’ll be able to have you pop up to look after the baby once we’re in Idaho, anyways.” There is a brief pause. “It’s so weird that we’re both moving house at the same time.”

“Yeah,” agrees Kurt, chuckling. “It’s too bad. I’m going to miss our monthly playdates.” Kurt stares up at the ceiling, white and speckled and familiar. It makes him sad, somehow. “You’re all going to be so far away.”

“I know,” admits Blaine, voice faltering for a second. Kurt can practically see his expression; thick eyebrows pulling together, hazel eyes softening. _Yellow_ , Kurt reminds himself, glancing outside at the dipping sun. _They’re yellow right now._

“We’ve stayed here too long as it is, though,” Blaine continues. “There was a warning issued a few days ago against travelling through these woods. ‘Large wild animals’ have been observed. It’s time, and we’re thinking we can be out of the motel by the end of the week. We knew the pack would be heading West eventually, and I’m just – just glad that we did this. You know. Before.”

“Me too.” Blaine hums softly in pleasure in Kurt’s ear. “Plus,” adds Kurt, taking on a playfully haughty tone. “It’s only fair, since I’m going to have the time of my life in New York. Rubbing elbows with the stars, working for my big break...”

“If anyone can make it, it’s you,” murmurs Blaine, and there is such certainty in his voice that it makes Kurt’s whole body feel warm.

Kurt licks his lips, then looks at his still-unpacked bedside clock. It reads 6:41. “How long do we have?”

“Only a little while,” says Blaine apologetically. “Puck’s gathering everyone up now. I just wanted to say goodnight, and good luck for tomorrow from all of us. Everyone’s going to miss seeing you so much.”

“I know,” says Kurt, and he does.

Because after that night, there had been no more opposition. No more anger.

He’d known that Puck was going to invoke the rights ever since that night in the lobby, well-worn books spread around them and pack members all clustered around in what had become a rare moment of calm. Because their family had been falling apart, struggling and fighting and clawing, and a solution simply had to be found. Even high off his mind off Blaine’s blood, Puck’s decision – and its aftermath – had been no surprise.

The night that he and Blaine became mates is a blur of blood and pleasure in his mind; gentle hands holding him so carefully in place, pushing his hair out of his eyes and rubbing small circles into arms. Of growing pleasure, and harsh refusal, and desperate and unthinking bliss. Feeling full with the knowledge of belonging, of being loved.

It had all worked out so well, in the end. The rights had tied Kurt and the pack together in a way that no one could deny; deep and instinctual on a level that none could question. There was no need for anger or opposition, after that. Just acceptance. Another member of the family, to be loved and teased and taunted.

And Kurt would do anything – absolutely _anything_ – for his family.

“At least I’m used to ten hour drives,” jokes Kurt, glancing out the window. The town that he has lived in almost all of his life lies sprawled outside, quaint and rural and conservative. Full of memories: some good, some unspeakably bad. Full of familiar places. The high school. The coffee shop. His mother’s grave.

It’s time for him to leave, too. But at least he’ll be bringing something familiar with him when he goes. Gentle and loving and always there, in the back of his mind.

“How are your parents holding up?” Blaine asks, and there is something so soft and sweet in his voice. Kurt can practically imagine him; curled up in bed or in an armchair in the lobby, curls falling into his face and a little smile tugging lazily at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, I think. All things considered. My dad... he knows I’ve always wanted to do this. And he’s driving me tomorrow, so it isn’t the end just yet. We’re staying in a hotel, then getting me moved into the new place the next day.”

“Send me pictures as soon as you get there?”

“Of course.”

“And I fully expect a Skype tour.”

“Of _course_ , Blaine.” There’s another moment of soft, comfortable silence. “How’s the pack dealing with the new girl?”

“Lauren?” Blaine’s voice immediately tightens into something very determinedly polite-sounding, and Kurt can barely hold himself back from laughing. Before they found her a few weeks ago, Lauren had been living alone and wild for over a year. Despite her hackled, defensive attitude, Puck had welcomed her to the pack with open arms. “She’s... adjusting.”

Kurt rather suspects that Blaine finds Lauren’s force of personality a bit grating.

Personally, Kurt finds her hilarious.

“Puck loves her, though,” adds Blaine, sounding resigned. “Says she’s a perfect fit with us. So she’s probably here to stay.”

“He does have a good idea every once and a while,” smiles Kurt. He sighs into the receiver, and imagines his breath traveling to brush across Blaine’s ear hundreds of miles away.

They sit like that for a long while. Quiet, and calm, and breathing into the phone. Being together.

“I love you,” comes Blaine’s sudden voice over the phone. Husky and real, and hearing the words aloud still makes Kurt shiver pleasantly. He can hear Blaine exchanging words with someone in the background, and after a moment Blaine speaks again. “I have to go. Call me when you and your dad get settled into the hotel tomorrow?”

“Of course,” says Kurt. “I love you, too.” He has never been more sure of anything in his life.

“Goodnight, Kurt.” Brimming with affection, and care, and assurance.

They hang up with a click.

Kurt takes a deep breath. Then he puts the phone down, gets up off the bed, and goes over to close his bedroom window. There is no need for the neighbours to have any more reason to give their house sideways looks.

For the next twenty-eight minutes, Kurt busies himself around the room as best he can. Taping down boxes, straightening the sheets of his bed. Bagging up the clothes that no longer fit him after his growth spurt and labelling them as being destined for goodwill.

He can feel Blaine buzzing at the back of his mind with apprehension.

Kurt knows the exact moment when the moon comes out in Missouri, because that is when the pain hits.

It’s only a shadow, a ghost of what Blaine must be feeling – but it sends him to the floor regardless, screaming and sobbing and gasping into his hands. It feels as though his insides are twisting, as though his skin is on fire. Kurt clutches his stomach and sobs, unable to think, unable to speak. Only able to feel _agony_ as it sears through him.

It isn’t real, he _knows_ it isn’t real. But tears still streak down his face as he lies sprawled on the floor, mouth wide open and gaping as his body contorts itself into grotesque twists. Crying out as it gnaws his insides and splits him apart. Kurt knows his parents must be able to hear him downstairs, knows that it must take all their willpower not to come upstairs and make sure he is all right.

But the pain doesn’t belong to them. It belongs to him and Blaine. Theirs to share, theirs to endure.

And so Kurt rides it out. Lets his body feel torn apart and re-arranged, knowing that hundreds of miles away his lover is being broken apart. Feels Blaine at the back of his mind, changing and twisting and snarling, less and less human with every passing second. Kurt lets burn through him, fill him up, and break him down.

Because it makes them both stronger, in the end. The separation, the agony. Makes them better, and brighter, and deeper inside one another’s minds.

Kurt presses his face into the soft carpet and makes the pain his own.

When it ends, a few minutes later, Kurt lies gasping and trembling on his bedroom floor. Soaked in a cold sweat, he feels Blaine – not Blaine, _the Wolf_ – wake up.

And hundreds of miles away, the Wolf begins to howl.

Kurt laughs, arches up into the sensation, and lets the undiluted joy of freedom wash over him like a wave.

  
 **The End**


End file.
